


The Little Yellow Child

by Bewscuttles



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Absent Parent, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, End of the World, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mistaken Identity, single parent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7091119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bewscuttles/pseuds/Bewscuttles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vladek Bear-Heart wants nothing more than to live a safe life with his young daughter, Jani. But then a courier appears, bringing word of his father's impending death in Skyrim, and they've got a limited time to reach him. Soon enough, after an Imperial ambush, Vladek and Jani are flung head-first into a bloody civil war, an insidious Thalmor conspiracy, and the return of the World-Eater—and if that weren't dangerous enough, everyone seems to think Vladek is the Dragonborn of legend. </p><p>He's not. A seven-year-old is.</p><p>A story about family, mistaken identity, and the realization that children have to grow up sometime, no matter if the parent is ready to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergence from the Main Quest; certain events may or may not happen. Pronounced (dar-yah-nee).

**Prologue**

Vladek Bear-Heart didn't know what hit him until he'd become a father.

There was more to it than that, of course, but he hadn't bothered with the details once he caught sight of his Hilja. One look into her sky-blue eyes and he knew what love felt like. Dibella had no prettier child than her. Mara knew no stronger love than his.

That's what it seemed like, at least.

He wasn't a young man by any measure; at thirty, he was too old to run as a courier, too old to stand apprentice with the blacksmiths and tradesmen, too old to even watch over the younger recruits. He was drafted into the Great War to spare his brother and parents, all in their late ages, a harsh war on the front. As farmers, his family hadn't been summoned until the situation was far too desperate, the Imperial City herself nearly razed to the ground. He was at a strange place in-between, at thirty, stuck in the midst of desperate teenagers and old laborers who knew nothing of war.

Then along came Hilja, a Nord girl of twenty-two, with robust Nordic features: full red lips, a proud figure, strong height, pale skin, braided blonde hair. She'd been put in with his group, the newest conscripts training for battle, and he found his eyes straying during spars, catching her gaze when prepping food for the camps, sharing smiles as they lay exhausted on the ground from a back-breaking drill.

It came natural to fall in love. Her laughter, her fearsome voice, her quick wit, her disgust with corruption in the higher ranks, her sympathy towards the farmers who feared for their crops back home, her curious nature, her affinity with horses, her kindness to all who came bruised and battered to her—all of these things and more. And in the end, it came natural to marry her.

It hadn't been easy. Vladek, who was a quick-hand with words, found his voice failing when she was near. His perfect memory of every dirty bard song and ditty failed in her presence. He would find himself staring into reflective surfaces—polished swords and shields, rivers and puddles—and wonder what she might want in a man. Every spar meant a chance to impress her. Every action and word he examined with such detail, a court scribe would be impressed.

When she said yes to his offer, he nearly passed out from sheer relief.

"You'll—I—yes?" he asked.

She let out a little laugh beneath her breath, as though she were afraid to hurt his feelings. "That's what I said."

His knees gave out then, and it was only her, his Hilja, that prevented him from dropping face-first to the ground. She laid him on his back and felt his forehead. Her hands felt like pleasant sparks on his feverish skin. He grabbed her hands in his.

"You said yes?" he demanded, pleading. He tightened his grip, afraid to let go.

She smiled, though it seemed a tinge exasperated. "Of course, stupid man." She shook her head. "You're embarrassing us both. Get up. I'd rather not carry such a huge husband around like a newborn."

They married a week later in the camps, surrounded by soldiers and friends alike. Vladek sent an official missive and a personal letter off to his parents. Hilja helped write it with him, as he was barely literate. He hoped his parents would be able to read his words in turn.

"So," she said, after the letters were passed to couriers, "what about children?"

"Uh," said Vladek. Tongue-tiedness was to become a trend with her.

 

* * *

 

The Great War with the Aldmeri Dominion lasted until two years later. The once-great Imperial City was in ruins and loose ends. The Ninth Divine, the Man-god Talos, was banned from worship. All sides held heavy casualties, though many Nords, Hilja and Vladek included, believed they had incurred the largest loss of all.

Hilja wept into his shoulder. "They can't take Him away, Vlad! He's a god!" She fisted what she could of his bloodied leather armor. "You can't outlaw a god!"

He soothed himself by playing with her hair. The odor of ash and smoke held strong in its wheat color. "They can't. They won't."

"What will we do now?" she whispered.

From where the remains of their encampment sat, he looked down the hill to the blood-red Lake Rumare, where the littered, broken remains of a myriad of corpses lay prone. The once bright marble of the Imperial City was charred and broken; the large columns that had signified the safety and order of the capital were now strewn haphazardly about the felled trees and barren fields. The White-Gold Tower, the symbol of Tiber Septim's Empire, stood alone in the skyline, its undisturbed whiteness eerie in the shadow of a war's destruction.

"I don't know," Vladek said, and he held her tighter.

 

* * *

 

War never left the survivors to their own lives. They both often woke from nightmares with daggers poised to strike, fists ready to strangle, teeth bared. The first year they found new cuts and bruises every morning, though neither spoke of their nightly terrors. They faced it together in silence, and they held their peace as proud egos do.

They stayed to rebuild the Imperial City. It was an unspoken agreement, much like their dreams. The thought of leaving disgusted them both. There was more to life than killing and destruction, Hilja told him, and if building a whole new city from scratch proved it, so be it. He agreed wholeheartedly and loved her even more.

Another year, and they found themselves four years married and with an empty, lonely house.

"There's no war now," Hilja pointed out to him one night over dinner. "We've the time, to settle our heads and hearths. What's your thought?"

Vladek took a long swallow from his tankard. The ale was not as good as that of Skyrim's, but it did do the trick. "Er, what's that you mean?" Though he had a rather good idea her meaning, and the thought sent his heart pounding—but from fear, or joy, or both, he had no clue.

"I mean children, Vlad," she said. She looked down at her plate, squinting. It was a nervous habit, he knew. She wasn't as sure as she presented herself. A true Nord, always a brave face.

"Look," she continued, gazing into his eyes. "Vlad, I love you. I love my life with you, I love living it, but..." She dropped her fork on the table and ran her free hand across her face. "I want children, love. A child of my own. One who'll remind us there's more than this—this plane of Oblivion, where we fear our own dreams, the shadows around the corner, and—Talos, Divines, whichever we can call on in our needy times—I just want a little one to love. Our future, Vladek."

Vladek sat there, feeling quite overwhelmed. _Well_ , he thought, and he stopped thinking. He coughed to clear his throat. He stroked his beard. He searched their modest little home, wondering what an appropriate response would be. Before he knew Hilja, he used to know just what to say. Now, marriage and a war later, he often felt lost for words, slowly letting the quiet in where once were only meaningless songs and jokes. This moment was no different.

He set down his own cutlery and tankard and rose from his seat. A tall man, built like the bear of his clan-name, it took only two strides to reach Hilja's side. Without a word he grasped her shoulder, stared into her eyes for a long while, and then kissed her. It took no more than that. Hilja smiled against his lips and folded her arms around him, and soon they thought of nothing beyond each other.

 

* * *

 

The babe was alive. The mother was alive. Everything should've been perfect.

But it wasn't. Hilja's eyes held no warmth, no happiness. When the child was pressed to her bosom, she stared listlessly at the bundle. There was nothing in her face that suggested even satisfaction. The tired woman in the bed was not his wife, let alone the proud mother of a newborn.

"Hilja, love?" he said quietly. He stroked her hair, hoping desperately it was only in his mind that she held no light in her eyes. "Hilja," he said a little louder, wincing at his own desperate tone. "Hilja, the midwife needs to know the babe's name."

The midwife stood off to the side, wiping her hands and equipment with a rag. Her hands rang with the familiar bell-chime of healing magicks. He, like any other sane Nord, didn't put much stock in magic and that whole business, but when it came to his prone wife and child, he could make concessions.

Vladek gave the midwife a pleading glance, hoping she would take a hint. A plump older Breton woman, the midwife had the look and eyes of a kind matron. Maybe, he thought desperately, she would be able to jostle Hilja to life.

"All right now, missy?" the midwife asked in her lilting Gold Coast accent. She came to stand at Hilja's free side. She took her pulse and vitals. "You seem out of sorts."

Hilja didn't seem to hear her. She only stared at the babe in her arms with a detached sort of look. As though the child were a stranger's thrust into her arms.

Vladek felt a deep ache in his chest.

"Please, what's happened to her?" he asked the midwife. He kept stroking Hilja's hair, but now his focus fell on his child. Their child. What would happen if this continued? He couldn't fathom it, couldn't bear to.

The midwife looked up from her tests, her hands glowing sunlight, and glanced his way. Her face held something he couldn't identify.

"I've got an idea of it," she said, carefully avoiding his eye. She took a while longer than what seemed usual when she wiped her bloody hands. "Though I doubt you'll like what I say."

He placed his free hand on Hilja's shoulder, stroking it with his thumb. He breathed deeply, thinking, and murmured quietly, "You might as well say it, rather than avoid the storm."

"True, true." She nodded her head. "But you keep in mind that it's nothing uncommon. Just the way of some women, you know. Nothing to worry yourself sick over."

"Please," said Vladek a little gruffly, "just tell me what's wrong."

She gave him a long look that he could not interpret. After a moment of searching his face, her eyes swiftly taking in his haggard appearance, she sighed and seemed to deflate.

"I'm fearing," said the mid-wife carefully, "that your wife was kissed by the Madgod."

His blood turned to ice and he froze in place. His hand clamped down on Hilja's shoulder; Hilja did not react beyond a slight change in posture, her shoulders almost imperceptibly curled into herself.

"What?"

The mid-wife sighed again, shaking her head. "You heard me, boy."

"But—she's always, always been perfect—"

"It's not unheard of," she said briskly, "for a new mother to get, say, _removed_. Touched in the head, maybe, thinkin' the child not hers, or thinkin' she doesn't want it." She breathed out through her nose. "Uncommon, not unheard of. It takes its time. Most girls grow outta it."

He relaxed for a second before he caught the hidden meaning. "Most?"

The midwife looked away. "Some don't. Sometimes they're changed. Won't be the same."

"No," he breathed. He glanced at Hilja's unmoved face, her blank expression, and their sleeping child resting against her chest. "That's not—"

"All I'm sayin', poor boy, is your madam may not be entirely...around. I say, give it a few weeks. You say you were soldiers? Perhaps that's all it is. This war has been a trial for us all."

"Maybe you're right," he said. But when he looked at Hilja, he knew it wasn't that simple. He pulled the bundle out of her arms and hugged the babe to his chest. A part of him wondered if this was the ultimate fate of his family, to be cracked and broken down an uncrossable line.

The midwife tucked Hilja back into bed, cooing nonsense words as she worked, all while watching Vladek as he slowly examined his child.

The babe was barely bigger than his palm. Swaddled in a blanket the midwife provided ("These symbols ensure good fortune and health," she had said), it had the scrunched up, tired eyes and red face of all newborns. A second look told him, with a rising bubble in his chest, that it had the same blue eyes he and Hilja shared. He pulled the cloth from its head and saw too the blond hair. A beautiful little Nord, as he always hoped for, perhaps a warrior-to-be. But so tiny and helpless and fragile, with such a little nose and little lips. He felt again that rise of tenderness in him, and without realizing it he found tears overflowing down his cheeks and sliding into his beard.

Was this how Hilja was supposed to feel, if she were well? He himself didn't know what to say. One look, and he knew forevermore he would do whatever he must to protect his little precious child. He recognized the feeling: It had been the same when he'd first seen Hilja, though increased ten-fold, with such paternal animosity he nearly shivered.

He couldn't speak at first, full of tears as he was, but he eventually managed to ask, "Boy or girl?"

The midwife looked up from where she tended to Hilja. She spotted his tears and smiled. "A little girl."

"A little girl," repeated Vladek in a daze. "My daughter."

"Yes," said the midwife gently. Hilja lay securely in bed, eyes unseeing ahead of her. "Should we wait for your madam to name the child?"

Vladek hesitated. "I don't—"

"I will not name her."

The voice, flat and blank, came muffled from beneath the blankets. Vladek and the midwife froze.

"Hilja?" he called out.

Hilja emerged from her cocoon with a lethargic stretch. She laid back on her forearms as she tiredly looked on the scene. She seemed even paler and detached than before, an unfamiliar frown line creasing her forehead.

"Hilja, love," he said softly, his heart thumping wildly against his chest, "what do you—"

"I will not name her. She is not mine, nor do I want her." Her voice gained a measure of iciness underneath the monotone. "You name her, Vladek," she said quietly, and with that she collapsed onto the bed, panting heavily.

Vladek couldn't even manage a cry of protest.

 

* * *

 

The next few weeks were a hell of its own make. Vladek often found himself with his daughter in his arms, cooing nonsense in the hope she would simply _shut up_. She wouldn't. She had the hysterical voice of an imp. He had taken to calling her Darejani, his little stormcloud, for the strength of her cries.

Hilja did not change, nor did she care. She very rarely left the house. Once a cheerful sort of lass, she barely spoke more than a few words a day. No matter how much he pressed, she would not touch their daughter. She had only ever held her daughter after the birth. Some days she would refuse to look at her, no matter if Vladek brought the baby into her sight.

"Please, Hilja," he would plead, "a child needs her mother."

"I am not her mother," would be her reply. And every time he would love her less.

 

* * *

 

It only took a year.

Darejani grew quickly. Once unable to keep her eyes open, she now crawled wherever she could reach. She screeched and cried and got sick and laughed and smiled; she was becoming her own little person, and Vladek could not, for the life of him, find anything that would deny her a mother's love. It was incomprehensible.

And yet Hilja never cared. She never looked at the babe if she could help it.

Their modest household was held together by an unraveling rope. Coin came in the form of their soldier's pensions. It wasn't much to live off of for one, let alone a family of three with a growing child, but they made do. Vladek didn't care much for food as he did for sleep, and Hilja barely ate enough to keep herself breathing. Darejani was his only real concern.

Vladek took to a job on the docks of Lake Rumare, hauling cargo from the Imperial City to the mainland. It was a hardy sort of work but he did what he could, and the Argonians he worked with took to calling him Hearth-Bearer. Vladek found he liked it, even if it was a mockery of his clan-name. Despite what he'd heard in Skyrim and the barracks, he found he liked the lizards. There was something about them that made him stop and stare every few minutes, a strange wildness. They were perhaps the most intimidating giants he'd ever seen.

Though the job paid well enough to keep bills accounted for, Vladek felt not a small amount of fear leaving his daughter—for she was now completely his own, and he had come to accept it—with Hilja all alone. The Breton midwife, named Phalene, took pity on his situation and watched over the two while he worked the days.

Nights were the trouble. Hilja refused to speak with him in any capacity. Darejani cried and cried without end, and he had no peace. His run-down house was falling apart from disrepair and neglect, for Hilja did nothing but sit and stare at the wall for hours, and Phalene had her own hearth and family to care for. Many nights Vladek found himself in near-hysterical states. There were holes in the walls from when his anger won over his melancholy.

"Why do you do this to me?" he would scream. Hilja would be unmoved, inert and lifeless. "Do you realize what you are putting me through, what you are doing to me and this family and yourself? Hilja, please, you lazy fetcher of a woman, please listen to me! Get off your ass and _help_ me!"

Sometimes a few tears would slip through her mask. But in the end she did nothing.

And so Darejani's first day of birth came. There was no celebration. Phalene had passed on, and Vladek did not quite know what to do without her around. Hilja was still touched in the mind and Darejani was not yet old enough to be left around someone so neglectful.

"Hilja, we need to speak," Vladek said that night. He felt soft and vulnerable now that he'd given up his work at the docks two weeks ago. His body ached, and so too did his heart. He couldn't live like this anymore.

Hilja did not speak. Her eyes moved briefly to his, then glanced away. All her movements were sluggish, unself-possessed; they were a stark contrast to the Hilja he had first met.

"Hilja, please listen," he tried. His voice was flat. Unable to look at her, he looked to the bed where Darejani slept. Emboldened, he continued: "This can't go on. This whole..." He scrubbed his face with his hands. "We can't keep on as we've been going."

An imperceptible movement, and suddenly Hilja seemed almost as though she were alive again. Her eyes were focused on his, a fire in them that had previously been extinguished, and she leaned forward on her chair. Her gaunt features and brittle hair seemed less ominous.

"What do you mean?" she asked hoarsely.

Vladek forced himself to breathe, to look away from her, to center himself. The words would hurt, and being presented with the possibility that Hilja could be revived hurt worse. They had to be said.

"We should," he said, breathing in, pausing— "We should separate. No longer be married."

He watched her reaction carefully. What he expected was nothing, honestly, perhaps something similar to her usual blankness; what he didn't intend was for his words to make her turn a ruddy red color. After avoiding sunlight and exercise for so long, the sudden flush was mesmerizing.

"Separation?" she said. She repeated it over and over again under her breath. "Separation? Are you sure? Is that allowed within a marriage blessed by Mara? A separation between Nords?"

Vladek didn't quite know what to say. "You're not...opposed to it?"

But she didn't hear him. "A separation?" she asked herself. He saw that she was trembling terribly and he didn't know what he should do, what he could do. He watched helplessly as she sat and stared at her shaking hands.

By Shor, he thought, she really was gone. "Hilja, please, listen," he said desperately.

She sat up in her seat and gave him her full attention.

"You want this?" she asked quietly. "For us to part?"

"Hilja," he sighed. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed the ball stuck in his throat to soften. "Hilja, love, I want you. I love you. I want you in my life—but as you were before all of this." He waved his hand across the derelict kitchenette. "Before you—when we were first married, and all after."

She seemed to mull over his words for a moment before she said, in such a low voice he had to lean closer: "Before the child."

"Yes," he said. He looked to where Darejani slept. "Yes, love. Our child."

The night was full of strange things. Hilja leaned over and grasped his hand in hers. It felt as though he were being caressed by a skeleton.

"Not ours, Vlad," she whispered, shaking her head. She gently stroked his knuckles, as if she could sooth the anger and sadness that tore through him.

He couldn't help the tears in his eyes when he said, "And that's why we can't continue."

 

* * *

 

They parted as amicably as they could. A priest of Mara declared their marriage annulled, as it had not been officiated in a temple devoted to her goddess. After a matter of signing official papers (Imperials loved their papers, Vladek mused), Hilja told him to take care of himself and his child, apologized for her side of things, and then punched him square on the jaw. For his part, Vladek told her he loved her as she was, hated her for what she had become, what he had as well, and gave a good punch right back. The priest and her acolytes had not been pleased with a brawl on their doorstep, but Vladek thought it had gone well enough for one of the few Nordic divorces he knew about.

And it really had gone well. Hilja looked happier than she had in a year—perhaps even in years. She had started eating again, enough to at least fill out the new leather armor he'd bought for her, and had explained she was going off to explore the rest of the province, start afresh as a hired hand and see where life took her. He wished her well, kissed her good-bye, and watched as she left for the merchants' quarter in the Imperial City. From there she would head for picturesque Cheydinhal, and then snowy Bruma, perhaps visit any remaining relatives around Skyrim's border, and from there—nobody knew. Vladek only hoped she would come to see Darejani every now and again, write to him occasionally. A part of him would always love her, and the thought of her dying alone in the wilderness was a fear he would never lose.

As for Darejani, she did not seem to mind the loss of her mother. She'd not much noticed anyone's presence beyond his and Phalene's, and with Phalene's death he was the only one she seemed to care about. She was growing bigger and learning to walk, and with that new development Vladek thought of moving on from the capital. Too many bad memories.

He picked Darejani up from where she sat chewing on a cloth doll and said, with false cheer, "Where d'you think we should head next, love?"

She squealed and clapped, grinning a gummy one-toothed grin. A line of drool oozed down her chin. She was naked but for a cloth diaper covering the source of a foul stench.

"That sounds perfect," he laughed, a jolt of genuine happiness washing through him.


	2. I. Word is Sent

**I.** Word is Sent

 

* * *

 

It is near sunset, the two moons just rising, and the sky is graying purple. The wind blows downstream, rushing against his face, and once again he feels a stab of annoyance; he should never have let Jani talk him into shaving his beard. It's as though his face is naked—and with that, vulnerable—and he has never appreciated the goosebumps it brings. Autumn is coming close now that the summer harvest has ended, and soon a beard will be near-necessary.

But he's sidetracked—what's important is the mountain goat grazing off near the cliffside.

It's a good shot, but retrieving the kill will be irritating. He isn't a young man anymore. At forty-one ("And a half!" as Jani likes to add), Vladek is not quite as primed as he was in his late-twenties. He's lost a third of his weight and sometimes hears his joints clicking in an oddly bug-like manner. Pulling himself up a cliffside for one goat just doesn't have quite the sparkle it used to.

But as if to remind him why he's up in the tree aiming his shot, Jani calls out, "Dad, are you done yet?"

At seven ("And a half!") years, his Darejani has grown some ways since her mother left them for greener pastures. It's strange for him to realize yet again that the original tiny bundle has aged into a little person with its own personality. Unfortunately for him, her personality is prone towards the loud and the frustrating. Oftentimes he has to remind her that being loud means nothing unless there's something meaningful behind the noise. And always, she seems to forget this maxim after a particularly exciting thing interests her—or more often, when she's bored, or frustrated, or both.

He holds back a curse when he notices the goat twitching. It's heard her too, apparently. With a mindless pull and release that comes of a desperate shot, he manages an arrow in the goat's lower throat. It drops to its knees and gurgles blood onto the snow before expiring.

Vladek allows himself a moment to quiet his heart before he calls out sharply in reply, "What did I tell you about yelling?"

When she doesn't reply immediately, he starts his climb down off the tree. It's the sort of tree with heavy supporting branches near the top, with nearly nothing towards the base of the trunk. Knowing quite well the regret he will feel tomorrow, he drops from the branch and lands heavily on his feet, then falls to his knees. Already his joints are clicking together like horse-hooves on stone.

Swearing under his breath, he falls back onto his rear and sits. And then he looks around.

Jani is hidden near a coppice of undergrowth close to his tree. The bright orange and yellow leaves hide her blonde hair from view, though there's no mistaking the pale skin or the blue eyes. Whenever he's hunting for game, he takes her with him—at her insistence, and against his sense of foreboding—and prefers her to hide nearby, preferably within sight, so that she can both study his form and so that he can keep a good eye on her. After a year of this they have a routine down pat: scout for target, find good perch, find good hiding spot, bag game. The only problem is Jani's growing boredom with the routine.

"Jani, come here," he says, wiping the sweat of his brow. He'd been taut and in waiting for that shot for ten minutes; he likes to be cautious, and it takes its toll. He is once again very aware of his age.

Jani takes a moment to rid herself of the brush, for the undergrowth is tangled in her long braid, but she complies with a reluctant sort of frown. She has an eye for trouble and knows when she's found herself some.

When she's right next to him, staring glumly off to the left of his face, Vladek lets out a sigh, though whether of pain or general frustration, he is not sure. What he's quite sure of is that even a priest of Stendarr, the disciples of the god of mercy, would be tempted for a belt when it comes to his daughter.

"Now," he says, feeling rather tired, "what did I tell you before this?"

She mumbles something under her breath.

"What was that?"

"You said I can't be loud," she says, her words fast and reluctant. She makes a sudden waving gesture and says in an urgent voice, "But Dad, I didn't mean to, you were taking so long I thought you died, and I thought maybe you were done, you killed it!" The last part sounds very close to a whine.

"Jani," he warns.

"Sorry," she mutters. She looks away.

He sighs. "All right, all right. Enough of that. Why don't you help me with the game." It's not a question, and she knows it. "Help your father up, won't you?" He offers his arm.

"You're too big," she says, crossing her arms. She even turns her head away, her nose in the air.

He can barely contain his laughter. Instead he covers it with a hand to his heart. "Oh, you wound a poor old man! Take pity, won't you?"

"No way! You're all fat."

"C'mon, you don't really mean that."

"Yes I do!" she says loudly, though her hidden smile belies the truth. Knowing he won't get anywhere with her, Vladek pulls himself up with the tree and stretches himself out along the base. He rubs life back into his stiff arms and shoulders, though he can't reach much of his back. An idea forms.

"Once we return, can you give your old da a backrub?" He ruffles her head and grins hopefully.

"Dad!" she growls. She loves her hair to be neat and perfect; needless to say, she hates it when he does that. "No way!"

Just to make his point, he ruffles it with both his hands.

"Dad!"

"Come! I caught us a goat. I think I earned one."

"So what?" she shoots back. "When I'm big enough I'll kill better things than goats. And I'll kill a lot more, and I'll be a better hunter."

"If you say so," Vladek says with a questioning lilt, a tone of voice he knows drives her mad. But even as she blusters on in her seven-year-old manner, he lets out a small, near imperceptible sigh. It's too soon, he thinks, for a little girl to think like this. "Well, c'mon then. We've got a few hours of sun left."

Jani mutters under her breath.

"What was that?" he asks, and he bends closer to her face, cupping his ear.

She lets out a dramatic sigh. "Dad, we ran around all day. Can't we go back to the inn?"

He only takes a moment to think. The inn is small and off the side of the road in the snowy hills near Skyrim's border. Considering its location, the inn's patrons are hunters and fishers, sometimes the local farmer or two. But Vladek had noticed a few strange marks here and there, on barrels, on the side of his headboard, that had told of a few shady dealings. He doesn't trust the innkeeper, an aging male Dunmer with a constant sneer, with his luggage, let alone his and his daughter's well-beings. He's only chosen the place because the choices were between the inn and sleeping out in the snow.

"Just another hour, until the sun's gone, love," he assures her in his gentlest voice. He doesn't like staying out in the cold either, but he wants to spend as little time in that inn as possible. Hunting is time-consuming and profitable; and perhaps through the hours of sitting in the bushes, Jani will learn enough to get an early start on archery and stalking. It's all he can do to reassure himself that everything he does is for the good of his daughter.

Jani's hangs her head. "Fine," she sighs.

 

* * *

 

Vladek catches one more goat and then brings the two along with him back to the inn, Jani carrying his bow behind him. Every few minutes he checks back to make sure she's still behind him and not stuck waist-deep in the snow (as it has happened too many times to count); he finds her waddling dutifully near his side each time, a determined frown dividing her face between puffy red cheeks and round chin. He can't help but smile at her.

She looks up and her frown deepens into a scowl. "What're you smiling at?"

"Your face," he answers honestly.

"Dad," she growls, though it sounds more like a low-pitched whine.

He shrugs his shoulders, shifting the goats so that they nod their heads in agreement.

They continue on in their peaceful quiet, Vladek admiring the muffled silence only fresh snow brings. At sunset they reach their little inn and stumble up the steps to the creaking porch. Vladek drops his kills off to the side for skinning, and then gently takes his bow and quiver from Jani. She's blinking her eyes furiously, her eyes teary from smothered yawns.

"Time for bed, I think," Vladek sing-songs, brushing hair out of her eyes. He's kneeling, eye-to-eye with her, and from here he can see the minute changes in expression from inarticulate protest to quiet resignation.

"Oh, fine," she mumbles. "But you promised me I could try some ale tonight."

He knows very well he didn't promise her anything—he's made a point never to do that again—but he decides that a sip wouldn't hurt. His mother had let him drink mead with meals, after all, though that was more a lack of fresh water than anything. In any case, a healthy Nord requires some alcohol now and then, right? He mulls it over and nods his head.

"Really?" she asks, perking up. He wonders if she feigned her earlier tiredness. When he looks closer he sees the red spiderwebs on the white of her eyes and throws that idea out. When she's older and has more energy for guile, he supposes. He fears that day.

"Really," he promises. He takes her by the hand and leads her inside the inn. The warm smoky air rushes past their heads. Although darker within than outside, the yellow light is easier on the eyes than the harsh reflections off the snow. He takes in a deep breath, smelling the roasting meat.

He looks down at Jani. "Can you survive through dinner without sleeping?"

She glares up at him. "Course I can."

"Really?" he asks, grinning.

"Really," she says, though she frowns.

They sidle up to the counter and he orders beef stew for them both, along with a tankard of ale and a cup of milk. As they eat, Vladek watches from the corner of his eye what appear to be a pair of Nord farmers off at the end of the bar, heads close to the counter. He opens his ears and waits, half-listening to Jani as she noisily slurps her stew.

"—'s all I heard," says the bigger of the two. "Somethin' big, I bet. Miners north here all runnin' off about those troops."

Vladek's curiosity leaps. He leans closer to the counter, listening harder.

"What're you talkin' about, whichem troops?" asks the smaller man, words slurring.

"Word's sayin' it's Ulfric's boys."

Vladek tenses, then forces himself to relax. Ulfric? he wonders. Did they perhaps mean Ulfric Stormcloak? He's the Jarl of a Hold in Skyrim, is all Vladek knows, though he remembers vaguely of a Nord with that name leading troops into the earlier skirmishes of the Great War. Vladek not for the first time regrets not keeping regular correspondence with his family. The only things he knows of the man are from gossip and second-hand stories.

"Whasit about them? They stirrin' the pot even more?" The smaller man takes a deep drink from his tankard. "Divines, he's wantin' a straight war, ain't he?"

"No doubt. Thas why the drakes in armor are meetin' them off. I'm tellin' you, nah safe in Skyrim anymore."

Vladek sighs. He's known this for some time. A land of harsh weather and wildlife, even the hardiest of the Nordic peoples find it hard to make a living off the land. His own family has struggled for years farming; his own struggles encouraged him to run away gladly when the Legion needed conscripts. He was never much of a farmer. Then again, he was never much of a soldier either.

It's a sad thing, but he's not intent on returning to his homeland until Jani's at least reached puberty. He's afraid what the land will do to her otherwise unprepared.

The farmers have changed topics to crops, and with that, to talk of the last of the harvests. Vladek lets his awareness slide away from them. He has enough to worry about than the brewings of another ill-fated war. He can only hope his family remains sharp and keeps their heads down, as they always have.

"Jani?" he asks, glancing over. Her head rests on her folded arms as she sleeps on the counter. The Dunmer bartender, the innkeeper, looks on with a face somewhere between disgust and a tenderness only small creatures can evoke.

"That's a right mess you got there," sneers the Dunmer, tilting his head at Jani.

Vladek shrugs. "Best kind of mess there is."

The Dunmer gives him a pointed look. "Maybe you'd like to get her into a proper bed, eh?"

"Oh. Yes, that's a good idea," Vladek says, feeling mildly embarrassed. He leaves a small pile of coins on the counter and shakes Jani's shoulder. "Jani, love, wake up. We're going to bed."

She groans as she comes awake. She squints in annoyance. "Dad?"

"Hush. To bed, no questions."

He picks her up from the barstool and places her on the ground, careful to make sure she has her bearings before letting go. She stumbles along after him as they head to their room up the stairs.

"Dad?" she asks again.

"Hm?"

"Didn't you say I could have some ale?"

"Hush, Jani." He pulls the covers from the bed and coaxes her under them. When she's tucked in and settled, he lowers the oil lamps and double-checks that the door is locked and the window secured. Once he's sure, he sits down on his side of the bed and pulls out from under it his knapsack full of belongings, where it slumps next to his travel tent and bedroll.

They say a man is measured by what he treasures most. If that were true, Vladek thinks, then he's a very poor man indeed: within his knapsack he carries a small journal full of numbers (for numbers don't require literacy) along with a few pieces of charcoal, cut strips of leather, a change of clothes, and a worn, though still sharp dagger that he'd received in the Legion. The charcoal is the least important to him; the journal perhaps is matched with the dagger for most significant. Anything else that might hold more value he keeps on his person.

When he checks off the estimated number of coin the goat hides will bring in and the total cost of the inn, Vladek puts away his charcoal and journal and wipes his hands on his leather pants. As always he feels his hands shake as he searches beneath his shirts, feeling his way until he finds the length of frayed cord that ties off his Amulet of Talos.

It's a hastily carved thing, barely the cross-shaped axe that designates it a symbol of the Ninth Divine. He'd fleshed it out over the few nights he had time to spare, when Jani was asleep and ignorant, when nobody would suspect. Even still, knowing that the only living witness is his sleeping seven-year-old daughter, Vladek checks again around the room and keeps the amulet underneath his clothes, letting only his fingers touch it.

"I pray for my daughter," he murmurs, the loudest he dares to speak. "For my lost wife. For my father and mother and brother. Divines know you."

Feeling considerably more relieved now that he'd said his blasphemous words, he finally wilts into himself. The aches of the day penetrate his skin and dig into his bones. The purple beneath his eyes pulsate with something similar to electricity, or whatever it is those mages call it. All he knows is that his blood pumps in time with the twinging soreness.

He puts his head in his hands and whispers, "What am I going to do?"

 

* * *

 

Jani is what wakes him in the morning. As always.

"Dad, get up!" she says next to his ear. To his groggy senses, it sounds near a shriek. "It's morning, sun's up! C'mon, wake up! I'm hungry!"

"Oh, shut up," he mutters. It feels as though only an hour or so has passed. Not nearly enough time for the moons to fall. He puts a hand over her too-close face and pushes her away.

She squawks indignantly. "I can't feed myself!"

Vladek turns onto his side to look at her. Gods, he thinks, she's getting bigger. "We need to teach you how to cook."

She scowls. "You keep saying it, but you're bad at it, too, and you don't teach me."

"Right," he yawns, and he rubs a hand over his face. "One day."

He drags himself out of bed after Jani and stretches out long and tall, his frame shaking from the motions. His neck cracks when he tosses it left and right.

"That's gross, Dad," Jani calls out from the small toilet connected to their room. It's not the sort of toilet like that in the Imperial City, where they kept pumps and running water and baths, but a chamber pot and a few buckets of water is all most people require, especially wanderers like them. Of course, a good wash is what they both need before they head off to their next destination: Bruma. A few good trades would last them several months as Vladek decides where to go next.

"Any soap?" he asks. Just to be safe, he cracks his knuckles.

"Stop it!" she cries. There's a pause, and then she says, "They got a small cake."

"That's perfect," he says. His blond hair, short and curly, has become even more unkempt than normal. He also needs a shave; the stubble is grating against his hands. The rest of him, he adds, is getting pretty ripe. Just to be sure, he sniffs his armpit. He cringes.

After five minutes, Jani comes out with her hair loose, looking neat and brushed. She looks at him expectantly and holds out a leather strip that comes from her own little knapsack. With a resigned smile, he gestures for the chair in the corner of the room. She sits and lets her hair fall down the back of the chair.

"You should learn to do this without me," Vladek says. He comes behind her and picks up three strands of hair. Braiding hair has never been his strong suit, but having a seven-year-old daughter enarmored with long hair makes it a necessity. He's tried to convince Jani to cut her hair to something shorter and easier to care for, but she's unusually reticent on the matter. He suspects it's his own fault: he'd once said the long hair made her look similar to her mother.

But that's another matter.

"What're we doing today?" Jani asks, trying to look over her shoulder.

"Stop squirming," he says, frowning in concentration. "We'll be skinning the goats—don't pout, it's how we eat—and then we'll see how the weather will fare in the next few days. Bruma is next."

"But we've been to Bruma before!"

"Yes, but—"

"But it's necessary," she finishes for him. She sounds as close to exasperated as a child can.

"Yes, it is," he agrees lightly. He ties off her braid and lets it fall to her lower back, admiring his work. "There, you're done. Now let me wash up."

When they come down to eat breakfast, Jani pulls him straight to the bar counter. The Dunmer innkeeper is already there, mashing up what seems like herbs in a small earthenware bowl. When he sees the pair of them, he greets them with a sneer that Vladek suspects is more just the natural resting state of his face rather than intended rudeness. Something the Dunmeri people seem to pull off very well, he remembers faintly.

"Morning," Vladek says. Jani, still a little shy around strangers, stands a bit behind his leg, watching the innkeeper warily. "Have a good night?"

"As well as ever," sniffs the innkeeper. "And I suppose a good morning to you."

Vladek helps Jani onto the barstool and sits next to her. He orders breakfast for them both, and then, leaning forward, Vladek asks, "Any gossip going 'round?"

The innkeeper's eyebrows rise. "Oh, we're looking for word on the town, are we? A little jaunt of rumors among the aristocracy, yes?"

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable with a pair of alien red eyes on him, Vladek compromises and says, "I'm more wanting to know whatever it is you can tell a worrying father."

"Hmph. When you put it that way, I suppose you'll want to know about the Legion around the area. Not, or course," he sneers, "that you would need to know for any criminal activities?"

The only answer Vladek can supply sits not a foot away from him, tearing through her eggs rather loudly. "Er—" He jabs a thumb in her direction.

"Yes, yes," says the innkeeper, shooting Jani another disgusted look. "Of course. But continuing, the Legion has been securing this area around the border. Or rather, I should say, the whole of Skyrim's continental border. Hasn't let most anyone but official parties in."

"Oh?" says Vladek, eyes widening. He hadn't heard of that piece of news. "Have they? For how long?"

The innkeeper gives him a quick assessing glance. "You're a Nord, yes? Have you not heard of this until now?"

Vladek flushes. "No. Didn't suspect much, from the letters my family sends me. Was this recent?"

"Hm." The innkeeper dumps his crushed herbs into an empty jar. "Yes, relatively recently. Ever since Ulfric Stormcloak threatened secession from the Empire."

Vladek nearly spits out the watered-down mead he's drinking. He coughs, feeling Jani patting him on the back, and then asks, "He did what?"

"You truly did not know?" The innkeeper shakes his head. "My, honestly. This has been the most persistent news since the end of the Great War—"

"Excuse me?"

The three look up and find a man standing a little off to the side. He's dressed in plainclothes, a cowl, and weather-worn boots. In his hands he holds a pile of papers and a package wrapped in cheap cloth.

"Uh, yes. I'm looking for a Nord man. Vladek Bear-Heart, of the Riften area." The man speaks in a practiced, efficient way, rushing through the vowels and clipping his consonants. "Have a delivery."

"That's me," Vladek says uncertainly. "Do you need me to provide evidence, or—"

"Oh no, that's fine," says the courier. "I know when I got the right guy."

"Right." Vladek takes the papers and package, handling them as though they are fragile. For all he knows they probably are. "Thanks, I—"

"No time for talk," interrupts the courier, holding up his hand. "Gotta make some deliveries." And with that, he rushes off, slamming the door on his way out.

Vladek looks to the innkeeper. "Are they always so...?"

"Punctual?" he suggests. "Very much so. But please," he says, not sounding at all pleased himself, "don't let me keep you from your very important delivery."

The innkeeper turns away and begins organizing his stock of shelves, muttering some foul Dunmeri words to himself. Vladek shrugs and turns the papers over in his hands. There's writing on them, of course, but from his cursory glance he has no clue what they say. All he gathers is that they're written by someone with a scrawling hand. Not an official missive, at least.

Giving the papers to Jani, who eyes them curiously, he pulls apart the cloth wrapping and finds a small, crudely-made wooden box. Examining it, he finds the facade of a bear carved into the side, and it takes him a moment until he realizes it's the sigil of his family.

A thousand thoughts rush through him. Keeping a steady hand, he opens the box and finds within it a silver ring, and again the face of a bear stares at him, jutting out of the metal. His heart beats even quicker, but now from fear.

His father's ring.

He turns to Jani and sees that she's looking through the papers. He puts a hand on her shoulder and tries to decipher what little he can over her head. All he can truly make out are the words "father" and "mother." The rest are a mystery.

"What does it say?" he murmurs in her ear. He doesn't want the Dunmer to know of his illiteracy.

She's better at reading than he is, humiliating as it is. Imperial City law dictates that all children under the age of majority must have at least two years of education by the state. In Skyrim, raised by farmers far in the heart of the province, that had never been a concern for Vladek's family.

"It's saying," she says, her face screwed up in concentration, "I think it's saying that...your father?—Grandma wants you to come home. 'Cause your father is...dying?"

Vladek looks between her and the ring in his hand, his mind awhirl. No, he thinks. This isn't supposed to happen. Not this soon, not during another war. In his homeland, at that.

"Skyrim," he manages to say. "We've to head to Skyrim? Is that it?"

"No, there's more." She moves to the next paper; the writing on this one is nearly illegible, more like chicken-scratch than written text, and she has to bring the paper near her nose to read it. "Says...Grampa Gundthram wants you to bring back his ring, I think? To see you wear it—oh." She pauses.

"What?"

"He's been asking for you," she says quietly, eyes averted. "He wants to see you wear it one last time."

He feels as though he were slapped in the face.

"Skyrim," he repeats.

"I guess—I guess we're not going to Bruma?"

 

* * *

 

The innkeeper looks slightly more sympathetic to hear his tale than Vladek suspected. When he asks for advice and information on Skyrim's recent past, instead of reports on army activity like he expects, he receives a biography on Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm.

"If there's ever one thing you take to heart," says the innkeeper, voice low, "it should be this: don't get involved with that man. Have a cousin up in Windhelm, works in that slum of a city, and I've half a mind to invite her down here with me, nevermind the lack of coin."

"Why's that?" Jani asks. Vladek doesn't pretend that this won't effect her; he wants her to know everything that she can. There's no point keeping her in ignorance. She's the one providing the questions Vladek feels too shell-shocked to ask.

"Because it's a gods-given pit," the innkeeper nearly spits. "And it shows just the sort of man who reigns it. Bastard leaves my people to rot in winter with—with rotting wood and threadbare cloth. Do you know they call it the Grey Quarter? Thrice damned, and the Dunmer are not allowed quarter anywhere else in Windhelm. A little ghetto, made just for our kind."

Jani shakes her head, as if in sympathy. "That must be hard."

"Child, you do not know hardship as our people have." He swears again in the harsh Dunmeri tongue. "In any case, Stormcloak is to be avoided, Windhelm if you can help it. Ulfric's boys wear blue with a bear insignia on their shields and cloaks. I saw your pretty box," he says to Vladek, "and I advise you to never show it to anyone in the province. The Legion won't appreciate the similarities, and the Stormcloaks will think you as one of them, and in the worst case, an usurper. Understand?"

"Yes, yes," says Vladek wearily. He takes another pull from his mead. Everything is so tiring today. He hasn't even started on skinning the goats, though he feels they're going to be useless in any case. Perhaps the innkeeper will buy them.

"What makes this guy so scary?" asks Jani, nursing her milk. She holds in her eyes the light for battle that Vladek remembers seeing in his and his brother's eyes when they were her age.

The innkeeper shudders. "Terrible powers. Ancient Nord magic, you see. They call it the Voice. I'm sure your father knows better."

"Hmmm," is all Vladek says. His mind races; memories play quickly. Suddenly he vividly remembers Ulfric Stormcloak, and the picture he recreates is not at all pleasant.

"Dad?" Jani asks, but he waves her question away.

"Not yet," he replies, "let the man speak his turn."

The innkeeper seems doubtful, but he continues: "This whole mess started when Ulfric challenged the High King to a duel. 'Twas supposed to be honorable, or as honorable as a Nord brawl can be—sorry, yes, uncalled for—and Ulfric decides he—well, he probably knew what he was going to do from the start."

"Which is?" Jani asks impatiently.

"He murdered the High King with his voice. Shouted him to pieces, they say."

She squeals, though from horror or excitement, Vladek doesn't want to know. He himself is horrified. He knew the tales from his youth, the stories and legends he sang in taverns and inns from his young wandering days, but the truth of it is still startling. Yes, this is indeed the Bear of the Legion. Divines help them.

They listen for a while longer until Vladek finally gives up and marches them upstairs to their room. It is nearly the afternoon and he has no clue what to do to prepare for this trip, beyond selling his goats. It's fine and dandy to walk around the temperate, somewhat secure Imperial countryside, he thinks grimly, but into Skyrim near winter, in the middle of a warzone? Had his family lost their collective mind?

No, he can't do that to his daughter. Or himself. He's not a spring calf, ready and reared for a march. And even if the skirmishes don't reach them, there's always the problem of his family, who he predicts will make him stay for the sake of the farm. While the idea is tempting to an old wanderer like him, owning a farm in a rebel Jarl's territory is not.

As he stumbles drunkenly about his thoughts, Jani sits on the chair and watches him. The image of Hilja in her chair, eyes following him unseeingly, is what breaks his concentration, and afraid, he gasps. It takes him a moment to remember it's his daughter and not a miniature version of his ex-wife.

"Jani," he breathes. He puts a hand over his heart. She stares at him with a piercing look. "Sorry, love. You need something?"

She hesitates before saying, "You were gonna tell me about that ancient Nord magic."

His breathing evens out. "Of course. Of course..." He settles on the bed near her. He doesn't quite know how to begin, so he decides to open with: "Darejani, do you know the meaning of your name?"

She wasn't expecting that. She blinks and then says hastily, "Uh—it means something about storms and wind and stuff, right?"

He smiles. "Yes. The wind of Kyne's power, in our ancestors' tongue. And you know what Kyne does for us?"

"Something about boats," she says, shrugging. "The wind pushing the sails out, guiding sailors to safety."

"Yes. But there is more to Her than boats." He pauses. "Tradition, our tradition, says she is the Mother of Men, the one who created the Nord peoples and sent them to glory from Old Atmora. She leads warriors to Sovngarde and she protects the wild tundras and plains. She also gave us a very powerful gift, our most powerful." He thinks on it.

She leans in. "What, what is it?"

"She gave us our voices," he says solemnly.

She scowls and pulls away. "Are you lying?"

"No, of course not. When have I ever lied?"

"The thing about children coming fro—"

"Our voices, Jani," Vladek continues on pointedly, "aren't like what we use when we talk. No, when a Nord uses their Voice, the Voice—called the Thu'um—they can—"

"They can what?" she exclaims.

"When they speak, reality listens," he says, carefully choosing his words. "When they call for fire, the world cannot deny them, and the fire comes. When they call for rain, the rain falls. A magic no one but the most wise of Nords know, a lost art to our people. And now," he adds seriously, "one of the few Nords that can use such a terrible gift..."

She catches on. "That Stormcloak man knows it."

"Yes. I'm don't know the man, but from what I saw and heard in the Legion, he's—why, he studied under the Greybeards."

"The what?"

"The Greybeards," he repeats, and he taps his jaw. "They live on the top of the tallest mountain in the world. No one has seen them leave. They're not, I'm not sure the words...'people-persons'?"

She thinks on his Tamrielic and then says, "You mean anti-social, or lonely, I think."

He shrugs. "Perhaps. But for all these facts, the truth that he studied under them says much of his power. A true Nord, by anyone's standards, and perhaps the only Nord off the Snow-Throat to Shout."

Jani screws up in her face in concentration and thinks on it a moment.

"So he can make fire and rain just by speaking?" she says after a pause.

He thinks on her words and decides they're close enough. "Yes. He's what the Legion and foe alike called the Bear of the Nords." He remembers: "When I came to the war, he was what the soldiers all spoke of, though never by name. His name was unimportant. Just the power that he could wield, all in his words—a great asset, until he disappeared from battle in the early years." He shakes his head. "No one knew where he'd gone. I suppose we know now, though I'm afraid of what it means."

"He's fighting the army now," Jani points out. "Why's that?"

The innkeeper had mentioned a vague something about freedom, but Vladek hadn't heard much beyond it. Too much overall griping about the state of Windhelm.

"Hopefully," he sighs, "we'll never learn. Listen to me when I say this: we'll be in and out of the country in two weeks. Enough to speak with your grandfather and visit, and then we will leave for the Imperial City. No detours or extended stays. You will obey me on this."

"Yes sir," she says. In her eyes, there shines an excitement that hadn't been present before. This is the most dangerous and foolhardy thing Vladek has ever tried with her, and he wonders when, not if, he will pay for it.

"We'll leave in two days. We'll hunt and stock up on what we need. No questions."

"Yessir."

"You will listen to everything I say, when I say it. Especially when we cross the border."

"Yessir."

"No more yelling."

She sighs. "Yes, sir."

"Good." He rubs his temples. "Good. This will go fine."

He hopes to Talos it will.

 

* * *

 

The third day at the inn, they leave behind a sneering innkeeper. Vladek pays him with both coin and whatever he has left from his hunting excursions. They shake hands on the transaction. When Vladek tries to pull his hand away, the innkeeper pulls him in close.

"Listen here," he says into Vladek's ear. "I know about your amulet."

Vladek's eyes widen. He tenses in the innkeeper's awkward hold.

"You and your daughter have grown on me," he says, though his voice sounds more acerbic than ever. "I'll let you know this: the Thalmor are quartered near Solitude. Nords disappear for much less. For the sake of the Three, burn that amulet as soon as you can!"

The innkeeper releases him just as quickly as he grabbed him, and Vladek stumbles away, disturbed. Jani is by the door, adjusting her pack, her back to the two of them. He glances at her, then at the innkeeper.

"Go on," he says, red eyes narrowed. "Remember what I said."

As he and Jani leave, Vladek swears the Dunmer adds, "There are eyes everywhere."

 

* * *

 

He's noticeably shaken. Jani asks him what's wrong a number of times, but he rebuffs her. Even when he assures her he's fine, he forces a grueling pace through the snow, a little too fast for someone with shorter legs and smaller lungs.

By sunset that day, Jani is fast asleep in their tent as the fire burns low. Vladek stares at the flames too long. His eyes water. His hands shake.

With one last desperate prayer, he rips the cord from around his neck and flings the amulet into the fire. He stares as the leather dances and crackles. The amulet burns easily, and by dawn, it's nothing but unrecognizable ash.

"What're you looking at?" Jani asks, looking at the remains of the fire.

"Nothing," he says. It's just an ashpit, he reminds himself. Inside, he feels the sting of guilt.

They move on, though now Vladek walks slower and allows himself to breathe. The snowy hills slowly change shape as they move, shifting into steeper cliffs and icy boulders. What once was a caressing whisper turns into gusts of cold wind. Jani curses it for the state of her hair.

It takes three days of slow climbing to reach the border. It's near afternoon when the evergreen trees poke out through the grooves of the mountains when they see it: the end of the mountain pass—a giant wooden gate about three-men tall, its columns made the Nord way with barely-cut stones stacked atop each other. He suppresses a smile.

He's home.

Jani tugs on his arm and points at it. "D'you see that? How'd they do that with all those rocks? Where's the cement? Is that _hay_?"

"Yes," he says, patting her head. "Nords stick the hay together and put it on roofs. Keeps it warm, and it shows the strength of our people."

"Really?" She eyes it. "Doesn't look it. Not like wood. Or marble."

"You'll see soon enough."

When they approach the gate, Vladek frowns. The door is unmanned; no one's there to open it for them. He knows well the fortitude Nords put in their woodcraft. He looks around and finds again that the two of them are the only people around.

"How're we gonna get in?" Jani asks. She comes up close and knocks on the wood. It produces a muffled _thunk_.

He grunts. Tapping along the wood, then stone, he angles his head and tries for a better view of the balcony. Again, he sees no one. Shaking his head, he returns to Jani and crosses his arms.

"This isn't a good sign," he says to himself. "No guards means there's bigger trouble around."

"Like a war," Jani says rather dryly.

"That might do it," he concedes. He glances down at her, measuring her up, and then exhales. "All right, I've an idea. You stand on my shoulders, climb up, and see if there's a way to open the gate. Understand?"

"Ooh, really?" She does a strange little dance on the balls of her feet. "What if there's no way to open it?"

"Then we'll figure something out." He drops into a crouch. "Get up."

The process begins with a cautious few steps. He hasn't let Jani on his shoulders since she was a toddler. She's gained a considerable amount of weight, though no more than the goats he'd hauled before. The problem is balancing something that shifts too much; in the end, however, she scrabbles up the stones for purchase and lands squealing onto the balcony.

"Anything?" Vladek yells.

There isn't a reply, but a low groan comes from somewhere beyond his sight. The wooden gates slowly swings open. Jani pokes her head out, grinning wide. "Found a lever!"

"I see!" Vladek laughs. "Come down, I'll catch you."

"Dad, wait, I found something else!" She disappears from view, then moments later throws down a book at his head. "And there's a sword here, too!"

"Wait, don't throw that—!"

A heavy sheath nearly collides with his head. He dodges just in time.

"Jani!"

"Sorry!" Her head reappears. "Can I come down?"

Without waiting, she jumps off the balcony. Vladek's heart rushes through his chest and the sudden image of Jani, broken and bleeding, pumps adrenaline through his veins. A blonde blur, a yelp, a crick in his neck—Jani is in his arms. He has to wait for his heart to calm itself. When he puts her down, he feels his anger manifest in his sweaty palms. Once Jani's on the ground he smacks her upside the head.

"What did I say about _obeying me_!" he roars. "You almost killed yourself!"

"Sorry, sorry," she mutters. She rubs the back of her head. "But I thought you would wanna see it..."

It's another ten minutes of scolding her about properly respecting your weapons that Vladek finally remembers the book on the ground. He scoops it up and examines it. The book is bound in leather and looks similar to his own finance journal.

"Jani, read this," he says curtly, handing it to her.

She flips through and studies it before saying, "It's a buncha notes by the guards. I think they're guards, at least. Maybe."

He ponders this. A guard's journal might prove useful. "Check the last few entries."

She reads through it for a few minutes. "You want me to read it out loud?"

"Please."

"Okay, wait." She coughs and then begins in a mock-deep voice, with an accent suspiciously similar to Vladek's own: "'Had bandits attack, they vere many but ve vere strong—like bear facing skeever horde in deepest of vinters—'"

"Jani," he warns.

"Sorry. 'They were many but we were strong.' Happy?" she says in her normal voice. She puts on her faux-Nordic accent. "'Fought twenty, killed as many. No mercy to the merciless.' And it keeps on like that for a couple pages."

"Anything else? Legionnaires? Stormcloaks?"

"Hang on. Huh, uh, he wrote...wrote, 'Loved a woman, elf harlot—' Dad, what's a harlot?"

He rubs his temples. "Jani, does it say anything about men in blue?"

She scans through it and shrugs. "The last page says they've been called back, I think to a place called Helgen. That's the last entry."

"Helgen?" he wonders aloud. The Helgen of his memory is more a glorified Imperial Legion outpost, a few farms and an inn allowing it a title bigger than fort. After a moment, Vladek asks, "What was the date of the last entry?"

"Um. The twelfth of Last Seed."

"Hm." He glances at the balcony once again. "Were there any uniforms up there? Any colors?"

She looks puzzled. "Nope. Just chairs and wood. Brown, I guess. Why?"

"I'm wondering...wondering if it's Legion soldiers being called back to Helgen, or Stormcloaks ambushing it. Whoever holds the gates of the borders lets their people in. You understand?"

"I guess," she says unsurely. "But we got the gates open. What do we do now?"

He shrugs. "We go on and look as unthreatening as possible. That's your job, love."

"What?" She frowns. "Why me?"

He smiles down at her. "You are young, and no one suspects much from the young. We've got surprise, then. Surprised is good, Jani," he adds, noticing her sullen look. "The best position to be in." He glances off into the distance. "Which is why I'm afraid of who wrote that journal. I'm afraid of who's waiting for us. Stay close."

After a quick discussion of whether it would be better to leave the gate open or not, Vladek decides to close it. When Jani asks why, he replies, "It's the safer option." There were gates at the borders for a reason, and despite the lack of guards, the protection is necessary. It's really only lucky circumstances that Jani was here with him to open it in the first place.

Once the gate's closed, they walk on. The crags of the mountains gradually smoothes to snowy dunes and hills. There's more fauna on this side of the pass, Vladek notes. The greenery is rather astonishing to see, sprouting from such fresh, undisturbed snow; the yellows and oranges mix with the greens, and he once again realizes there's more to Skyrim than the white. He's missed it, though the temperate climate of Cyrodiil certainly blew the thought from his mind.

Jani takes to pointing out the plants and asking him what they are. When she spots a clump of lavender-blue flowers, she races to them and tugs a good chunk out of the ground.

"Dad, Dad, what're these?" she asks breathlessly. She holds the flowers up like a trophy.

Although he scolds her for her careless manner, he can't help his twitching lip. "We call them simply blue mountain flowers. They grow everywhere in Skyrim, except in the ice tundras."

"Interesting," she mumbles. "Can we hold onto them? Please?"

"Only a small few. If we can find a stream, we can boil some water and make a tea out of them."

The beaming look he's rewarded makes the whole trip seem worth it.

As the continue on, they spot a couple of snow foxes leaping through the undergrowth. Jani pleads with him to keep one as a pet. He shows her a scar on his arm where one of the little fetchers bit him when he was younger.

"Never trust a fox where a good dog will do," he says. "Foxes are a farm's worst enemy, after blizzards."

By the late afternoon, the land is more downhill than level. The trees are almost as tall as the mountains on the horizon. Although the wind has died down, a group of fluffy grey clouds sits off on the edge of their vision.

"We'll need to stop soon," Vladek says. "Storm's coming up west. The trees here will ward off the worst."

Jani does her best to help set the tent. She's normally good when it comes to making camp; tonight, however, she's unsteady on her feet, yawning every few minutes. He sends her to bed early, despite her protests, and promises her sometime tomorrow they'll boil up the tea. He finishes latching the tent to the ground by himself. He makes only a small fire, afraid the wind might whip up the fire onto the copse of trees.

"Back home," he says to himself. He watches the sky as it changes from purple to dark blue, as the pinpricks of light slowly flutter to life, as the sky becomes littered with stars. And before he can ground himself, he sees the first of a green stream shudder into being.

His father had always called the auroras the river which Shor shepherds the mighty dead to Sovngarde. It does look like a river, a flowing mass of green and purple swirling across the night sky. It's gorgeous, he thinks. The sight reminds him of everything he missed in Skyrim: the promise of glory, the splendor of the mountains, the quiet dignity of the land. He feels as though he's submerged in a cold pool of water.

Of course, that doesn't curb his wariness. Skyrim's beautiful to look at, yes, but that doesn't mean it's not dangerous. One look is all it takes for Vladek to remember the nights of hunger, the loneliness that came from adventuring under the auroras alone, the pains of growing older. Trusting a place is like trusting an object: it doesn't care for you as you do for it.

The ambivalence of the day washes over him. He's home. That's not a good thing, nor a bad thing. But what to do with that information, he's not too sure.

 

* * *

 

Soon enough by midday they finally reach a road. It's more a trodden sliver of dust and mud, but it's preferable to stomping through the snow listlessly. Jani examines it like a mule does a load of luggage.

" _This_ is the road?" she asks. Her voice is doubtful.

"Not everywhere has the paved roads of the Imperial City," he says lightly. A part of him is amused by her reaction. Another part, the more Nordic side, feels depressed at the spoiled nature of his child. When he was her age, the sight of a dirt road meant the promise of adventure.

"Yeah, but..." She trails off.

"But?"

"Nothing," she says. She looks back to where they came, her eyebrows furrowed.

 _Ah_ , he thinks. "You're afraid?"

"What! No." She turns on her heel and marches on with her nose in the air. "I'm never afraid."

He hides his laughter in his hand. He's forgotten that she's never left Cyrodiil before. The change in land must be a shock. Culture shock, similar to what he'd felt when he was first conscripted. His eyes had been wide for days when he'd arrived in the Imperial City.

To pass the time, he singles out specific trees and plants, explaining their names and purposes. His knowledge of alchemy is small, though he knows just enough to get by in the wilderness.

"Snowberries," he says, holding out to her a branch of bright red berries, "are useful for burns and fevers. Cools down your chill while keeping your body a healthy warm. My ma used to say they absorbed the cold from the snow they grow in."

"Really," Jani says. Her eyebrows are on the edge of her forehead.

"Truly. If you're ever in need from a fire, find a bushel of snowberries."

That night Jani manages to stay awake longer than usual. She's growing used to the pace, notices Vladek. He's rather proud of her. They camp near a stream and cook the tea he promised. He even adds in the snowberries he found earlier for some spice.

Jani takes a sip and makes a face. "This is bitter."

Vladek shrugs and takes his own sip. He winces and forces himself to swallow. "It's...adequate."

"You say that when it's bad, Dad."

"It's fine."

"You're turning green!" she crows, pointing at his face.

He slaps her finger away. "Come off it. This tea improves stamina and heats a fire in your belly."

"You made that up!"

"Feh." He shakes his head. "Children these days. In my day, when elders spoke, children listened."

They settle against the fire in silence, watching as it flickers and roasts the fish they'd caught earlier in the stream. The fish aren't big, barely two fingerwidths, but the smell is glorious compared to the idea of more salted goat meat.

"Hey, Dad? Can you sing me that song? The one about dragons." She glances up from her fish hopefully.

"Hmm?" He pauses in thought. "You mean, 'The Dragonborn Comes'? What's the occasion?"

She shrugs, muttering, "Just thought it fit. I dunno, just the way the wind's blowing. Right?"

It's an old Nordic expression he'd taught her. It comes from an even older idiom along the lines of "the battle follows the way the wind breathes." Vladek knows it has something to do about Kyne, or Kynareth, as Jani knows Her, but the specific meaning has been lost to him.

"I suppose," he says, smiling. And he sits up straight, hums to hear if his voice will work, and begins:

 _Our hero, our hero_  
_Claims a warrior's heart_  
_I tell you, I tell you_  
_The Dragonborn comes_  
_It's an end to the age_  
_Of the ancient one's rest_  
_Believe, believe_  
_The Dragonborn comes_  
_Soul's wisdom within,_  
_His heart fuels his quest_  
_O gone, O loved,_  
_The Dragonborn comes_  
_When Wind calls Her men,_  
_World's call for His best_  
_O see, O hear_  
_The Dragonborn comes_  
_Our hero, our hero_  
_Master of Tongues_  
_I tell you, I tell you_  
_The Dragonborn comes_

When he warbles off the last note, feeling strangely light-headed, he exhales the last of his held breath. To his side, Jani watches him with an appraising eye.

"That's different from last time," she says.

He laughs. "There's many versions of the song going around. Just another you might like, I thought."

She grunts, looking thoughtful.

 

* * *

 

Trouble comes their third day in Skyrim.

They are closing in on the end of the stream, where they are sure to find some sort of village or encampment. The snowy slopes of the mountains have leveled out into yellow grasses and warmer temperatures. The tree have shrunk down in size, though they are still tall, and thinned out for more clearings and leafless bushes. Vladek is mid-explanation of the proper way of tracking deer, when Jani suddenly kicks him in the shin.

"Dad!" she hisses, cutting off his indignant words. "Shut up! Don't you hear that?"

He does: The sounds of steel clashing against steel; the harsh cussing and muted roars of battle cries; the rumble of many armored feet trampling the ground—there's a big fight nearby.

Without thinking, he grabs Jani and ducks behind a thickly clustered group of trees. He knows then, hearing the sounds growing louder, that they are coming inevitably closer. He sinks onto his haunches, holding Jani to his chest, his mind spinning furiously through his options.

"Jani," he whispers into her ear. "Listen and obey me, no questions. I want you up as far you can go—climb this tree, hide in the branches, make no noise. That's an order. No matter what, do not reveal yourself. Are we clear?"

He feels Jani nodding her head into his chest. It's all he needs before he falls onto his knees and boosts her onto his shoulder. With his added height, she grabs onto the nearest branch, the branch of the tree they're sheltering behind, and pulls herself onto it. From where he stands he sees her scrabbling up the bark, hand to branch, foot to hand, making quick work as she disappears into the dark needles of the evergreen. Once she's safely ensconced and too high up to be hit with low-shot arrows, he assesses his belongings.

The sword they found at the border gate is strapped on his belt near his dagger. The worn dagger he uses for shaving he now keeps in his right boot. He has no head protection, no eye protection; all he has is the leathers he wears over his thin set of tunic and pants. His boots are the most durable thing he's wearing. Not fighting material, he thinks. The tent, bedroll, and knapsack strapped to his back are dead weight; he drops them onto the ground.

He crouches low. Just to be safe, he takes a smattering of dirt and rubs it into his blond hair and over his face, covering the more noticeable parts. Taking in a deep breath and scrounging up whatever remained of his Legion training, Vladek creeps to the edge of the trees and peeks through a small hole in the cluster.

It's a scene right out of a Nord bedtime tale. Men and women in armor, one set red and metallic, the other blue and fur-trimmed, are engaged in combat all around a large clearing. From his vantage point, he makes out an outcropping of tents, horses, and a makeshift smithy. The flags surrounding it display a familiar bear-head insignia.

 _Shor's bones_ , Vladek curses inwardly. They'd somehow stumbled into what looked like an Imperial-Stormcloak battle in progress. The most perfect of timings.

He retreats behind the trees. Running out there would be suicide. He has no part in this war, and wants nothing to do with it. But he and Jani are trapped until eventually one side wins, or they get caught. And he doubts either side will be sympathetic to what appears to be an unkempt scout. He doesn't even want to know what would happen if they find Jani.

Feeling rather hopeless, his heart pounding, his hands shaking, Vladek draws the sword and stares at the polished steel. His brown and dirty reflection stares wide-eyed at him. This Vladek looks just as scared as the real Vladek feels. He grimaces. A Nord must be fearless, he berates himself; no cowardice in the face of danger. Sovngarde awaits.

He stands again at the edge of the trees and waits. No one, he knows instinctively, is coming near Jani's tree. Not if he can help it. One step in their direction, and he'll aim to kill.

The field is dominated by red; the Legion outnumbers the rebels two-to-one. As far as he can see, all those laying on the ground are Stormcloaks. Unconscious or dead, he's not sure. He stares at the face of Stormcloak with an open helm: A blond-haired man with stubble, he looks younger than Vladek, though his frown lines are deep-etched. I used to be him, Vladek thinks distractedly.

" _FUS! RO DAH!_ "

The ground shakes and rumbles as winds rip passed his face, nearly cutting him with their violence. There's screaming and yelling—the world turns cacophonous and muddled. Ears ringing, Vladek looks towards the source of the thunder—and he stops breathing.

The man is perhaps his age, perhaps even older. His hair is the color of dark red wood and his eyes a darker blue. His nose is broad and large, though it fits his face; his jaw is clenched and taut, just as his forehead and eyebrows wrinkle harshly downwards; his lips are pulled back, revealing sharp canines and a howling, brutal voice that sounds akin to crashing waves off a cliffside than anything human. The clothing he wears is fine: it's near purple, the color of wealth and nobility, and the furs stand out as a bear's soft pelt. In his hands he wields two axes, the true Nordic weapon—but why he holds them when his voice holds so much power, Vladek doesn't know.

So this is Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, thinks Vladek hazily. No wonder the Empire sees him as a threat.

But despite the power of the Voice, the sheer numbers overwhelm him and his troops. Vladek watches as a team of Legionnaires disable the soldiers surrounding Stormcloak and then close in on the man himself. He fights bravely and fiercely, shouting threats and words of power, but in the end, a well-placed hit from a sword pommel and a strong gag are what brings him to his knees. They tie up his wrists and knock him unconscious.

They don't kill him, Vladek notes. He gets his answer when three empty carriages arrive to the scene only minutes later. The Jarl and his personal guards are thrown onto the carriages, while the rest of the Stormcloaks are bound and tied to a nearby tree.

An ambush, then. He remembers the border gate and curses himself. He'd seen the signs and still had gone on, believing in his own infallibility. Stupid man! Now he and Jani were stuck in the middle of the most important battle of this blasted civil war.

"Captain!" yells a Legionnaire from where the remaining Stormcloaks are. He salutes a woman in Legate armor, or what Vladek thinks it is. "What are your orders?"

"Keep watch of the perimeter for any intruders," orders the woman. Her skin is tan and her eyes are like a hawk's: beady and shifty. "Catch and detain anyone you find."

"Yes sir!"

Vladek nearly groans aloud. And then he has to stop himself from yelping when he feels a sharp point between his shoulder blades.

"Don't move, scum," an icy voice spits. "Lift up your hands and show your weapons."

He's sweating now. He tastes the dirt on his mouth as he licks his lips. Very, very carefully, he raises his arms in the air, palms spread, and leaves a loose grip on his sword. His back to his assailant, he can only feel as the sword is wrenched out of his grip and thrown to the ground far away from him.

"Now get up. No sudden moves, or you lose your head."

He complies in that careful way he's adopted. He's seen firsthand on separate occasions the seriousness of a Legionnaire's words, and he wants no part in fulfilling them. When he's fully standing, he realizes that his opponent is probably an Imperial, the way the point of the sword has dropped from between his shoulders to his lower back.

"Nord man," says the Imperial man. "Of course you are. Now I want you to turn around and put out your hands."

Again, he complies slowly and carefully. The man is, just as he suspected, an Imperial man around a head shorter than him. A part of him finds the thought rather funny, to be disarmed by such a small man. Another part admonishes him for the thought. After all, only one of them is being tied up.

Once Vladek is secure, the Imperial man pushes him out from the trees into the clearing. All eyes snap to him.

Feeling self-conscious and aware of the dirt in his hair and face, Vladek is pushed to where the carts are, where the gagged Ulfric Stormcloak slumps in his seat, and where the captain of the Legion troop stands. He's pushed to his knees in front of her, chest-level as her eyes rove over him. The swordpoint never leaves his back.

"Found a Nord man behind those trees, sir," says his captor. "Had a sword and looked like he was waiting for the battle to end."

The captain doesn't look at the Imperial, merely nods her head in his direction. Instead her eyes remain fastened to Vladek. It's all he can do not to shrink under her scrutiny. It's only years of training that prevent him from cutting eye contact. Her eyes are black and pitiless.

"Is that so," she finally says. She looks away and turns to the Imperial. "Where's the sword?"

"I disabled him. It's near the trees."

Her voice holds more than a trace of impatience. "Then why don't you go get it."

"Yes sir." The sword leaves his back, but Vladek does not dare move. The captain's hand idly touches the grip of her sword. Not a woman to mess with.

"Here it is," says the Imperial. Behind him, a hand passes his unsheathed sword to the captain. She takes it by the grip and strokes the sides of the blade. She turns it upside down and examines the sharpness and steel.

"This is Stormcloak-make," she says at last, and Vladek only manages to stop himself from crying out. "Strange," she muses, looking from him to the sword, and back again. "You have a Windhelm piece, yet no uniform. Dirty beggar look to you." She stares at him for a long moment.

He tries to plead with his eyes. "I'm not—"

He gets backhanded for his trouble. His temple smarts from the pain.

"I never said you can talk," she says calmly, shaking out her hand. "As I said, you don't look like a Stormcloak, but that doesn't mean you aren't one. Look at you: beneath the dirt, you have the same blond hair and blue eyes. Aren't I right?"

He doesn't speak.

"I'm right. You!" she barks at the Imperial behind him. "Knock him out and put him on the cart with the rest of them."

His eyes widen and he yells out, "I'm not a Stormcloak! My fa—"

Another backhand, this time to his other temple. His mouth snaps shut. Words are useless here. No wonder, he thinks bitterly, that they captured Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Er, sir? Are you sure?" asks the Imperial. "General Tullius specified only Stormcloak's personal guard—"

"General Tullius is not here," snaps the captain. "And if you haven't noticed, I am the commanding officer. When I say he goes in the cart, _he goes in the cart_. Do I make myself clear?" She comes up behind Vladek and says in a lower, more menacing voice, "Do I make myself clear?"

A monotonous "Yes, sir" is the reply.

Vladek could swear the man breathes in his ear, " _I'm sorry_ ," before pain explodes behind his head and everything goes dark.


	3. II. The Vigil

**II.** The Vigil

 

* * *

 

The pain is what first wakes him. It starts small, from a tiny pinprick at the nape of his neck, until it claws its way up his spine to his jaw and skull, pulsating in time with his heartbeat. It's a rough staccato that patters on the inside of his teeth. A jarring motion against his back startles him awake.

His head is hanging to the side, wreaking havoc on his upper back. A bright light flashes white-hot against his retinas. He flinches, and the sudden movement causes him to groan in pain. Shor's bones, the soreness is slowly killing him.

"You're awake," says a voice in front of him, and Vladek can barely tolerate the sound. "You were picked up with us, eh?"

Vladek tries to rub away the the grogginess from his eyes—and stifles a curse when he finds his hands bound by strong, chafing rope. He blinks heavily.

Sitting bound in front of him is a blond Nord man, the one that Vladek had seen unconscious on the field. He's a young man, with bright blue eyes and the strong, broad features Vladek has come to associate with farming stock. Despite the circumstances, the man is smiling at him, an amiable set to his lips. Strangely Vladek wants to return the smile, though he feels like utter shit.

"Mistaken for us?" the man tries again. A desperate note has entered his voice, and Vladek wonders if this is his way of ignoring the whole situation. He wouldn't begrudge the man a conversation. Everyone copes differently.

"Aye," Vladek starts, wincing at the shooting pain in his jaw. "Yes," he says more deliberately, "got caught while you lot were in the middle of it."

"Heard as much," the man says. His eyes take on a sympathetic gleam. "Sorry it happened to an innocent man."

"Me too," says Vladek. And then everything rushes back to him in a moment. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open.

Jani.

" _No_ ," he whispers. " _No, gods no_."

The man notices the change. He leans forward, looking into his shocked eyes. "You all right?"

"My daughter," Vladek breathes. The world starts to spin. "My daughter was back there. Hiding."

The man's eyebrows rise. "Your daughter?"

"Jani." He needs to calm down, he thinks, but the thought doesn't seem to reach his body. "I pushed her into the trees and told her to hide."

The man narrows his eyes. "You couldn't hide with her?"

"Am I not a Nord?" asks Vladek, his heart plummeting into his stomach. He was so stupid. He is stupid. Now his stupidity is costing him everything. His voice climbs higher and louder, a hysterical note creeping in. "Do I not defend my family when I can?"

"Aye, man," says the Nord, giving him a sharp look, "I know you that. But calm yourself. They'll soon as kill you as you raise your voice."

Yes, Vladek reminds himself, _calm down_. "I—yes, right." He takes in a deep breath. Exhales through his nose. "You're right. You're right."

The man hums a noncommital sound. "If I was right, we wouldn't be in this situation, kinsman. Now tell me, what is your name?"

Vladek mind races. In his panic, it takes some time to remember. "Vladek. Vladek Bear-Heart," he chokes out. "Sorry, mind's out."

"Ach, it's no trouble," says the man, smiling. "I don't think I'd be much better in your shoes. Tell me, brother, what's your daughter's name?"

"Darejani," Vladek says, staring at the floor of the cart. The plodding pace and rickety movements are aggravating his headache. "Called Jani. Seven and a half. Blue eyes, blonde hair."

"Seven?" The man grimaces.

"And a half," Vladek adds solemnly.

The man shakes his head. "I'm truly sorry. Shouldn't have happened to you. Or anyone, really," he adds, looking over to the other two carts ahead of them. They are filled with the remaining Stormcloaks. The man's eyes take on a brooding cast.

"Tell me your name," says Vladek, head near his knees.

He turns back to Vladek. "Oh? Aye, Ralof, of Riverwood."

"Riverwood?" He snorts. "I have an aunt who lives there."

"No kidding? Don't tell me it's that old shrew Hilde."

Vladek manages a small laugh. "One and the same."

Their talk trails off. Around them, the trees grow taller and thinner, and the snow returns to the ground. It's an uphill climb; they're returning to the mountains, he realizes. Where they're going, he has no idea. But with Ulfric Stormcloak sharing their procession, Vladek knows wherever they end up, it will not end well for any of them.

He tries pulling at the rope, hoping at least to loosen it. It's tied too tight, the rope too thick to be forced off. When he looks down, he scowls: his leathers and underclothes were stripped off him, leaving him in a tunic made from the same material as a potato sack. He notices the Stormcloaks all have their own armor strapped on.

Ralof sees his gaze and shakes his head. "They did that when you were knocked out, right before they loaded you in the cart. Took all the things in your knapsack and stripped you of your valuables. I'm sorry."

"Dammit," he mutters. He clenches his fists until they turn white. "How long was I out? Where are we?"

"Near the Pale Pass, I think," says Ralof, glancing around at the snowy hills. "A few hours at most. It's not yet sunset. Where we're headed..." He sighs. "Helgen, most likely."

"Helgen?"

"Last stop," he says simply.

Vladek breath hitches. He glances to his right and meets the dark gaze of Ulfric Stormcloak, whose furrowed brows and down-turned head speak of a conquered regality and perhaps buried regret. Or maybe it's not regret, but a shared sadness for Vladek's circumstances. Even a Jarl has a family to mourn, who in turn will mourn him. Perhaps even worse, his death will precede the death of his brothers-in-arms, and if Vladek knows anything, it's the ties that bind those in war.

Vladek can't take his gaze any longer—he looks away and stares at the floor. All he can do now is pray.

 

* * *

 

The carts stop twice for their prisoners to relieve themselves, but besides this, it's a non-stop march to Helgen. The Legion riders and horses are replaced as they go every few hours. It's a testament to their fear of Ulfric Stormcloak that he receives such an honor guard on his death march. That's what Ralof believes, at least.

"It's fear that drives them so quick," Ralof says to him sometime during the night. All three in their little cart refuse to sleep, instead staying up with their driver as they watch their last of the auroras together. Presumably the Stormcloaks on the other carts are doing the same. Vladek cannot find the will to sleep now.

"And yet they run the next town over before they kill us," says Vladek, with an agitation borne of existential gloom. He doesn't much prefer his foul mood, but it's either this or sobbing over his own death and his daughter's fate. Anger is much easier than self-pity.

"Because the death of such a fearsome foe is a feather in the Empire's cap," Ralof points out. He nods at Ulfric in a sign of respect. Ulfric returns the gesture, albeit in a dour way. Vladek doesn't envy him the gag. "They want to parade him around and show their lackeys he is not worth fearing. Prove him a man rather than the second coming of Talos."

Having shared a tree as a privy with the man, Vladek is inclined to believe the Imperials. Ralof seems to suffer a young man's case of hero worship, and Vladek doesn't feel like ruining it for the lad. Though the constant praise is rather sickening, considering their situation. Vladek has half a mind believing Ulfric doesn't care too much for it himself.

"That makes me wonder," says Vladek, frowning in thought. "Who are they parading for? The townspeople? But they aren't important enough witnesses."

Ralof spits over his shoulder, earning a glare from a nearby Imperial rider. "All my coin on General Tullius showing up. Come to rub his triumph in our faces."

Ulfric's eyes narrow in agreement.

Early morning they stop for a toilet break. As they line up for their leak, Vladek spots something off in the snowy distance. It's not much of anything—no one besides him looks in that direction—but it's the way the underbrush wiggles oddly, the shift of the once completely orange leaves to a yellowish-orange, the way the air watches him expectantly—

It's Jani, there can be no doubt. After so many hunting trips, he's come to instinctually recognize her ways of hiding. She's good at disguising herself once she's underneath, but the few moments as she races to her spot, she's a conspicious blur. How he caught it, and no one else, makes him wonder.

He could be imagining things. The possibility lingers. Yet the feeling in his gut says it's her, and he's learned to trust it after all these years.

He nearly swears aloud. That stupid, idiot girl! For all he's relieved to know she's safe, the fact she's following a Legion procession like an enemy scout makes his limbs quake. And he'd thought her a smarter than this! If he came out alive, he was going to beat her to Oblivion and back.

All too quickly they're loaded in the carts and off once again. This time he ignores Ralof, trying to signal his unease with his eyes, and stares off into the trees, straining his eyes in the hopes of catching a glimpse of familiar yellow.

Nothing happens until the afternoon. The cart stops suddenly, jarring Vladek from his half-sleep. Mumbling curses, he looks around to find the source of the problem. Ralof gestures with his tied hands to the front of the line of carts, where a small group of riders stands blocking the road.

Vladek's eyes widen and his hackles rise. _Thalmor_.

The black hooded robes hemmed with gold are a fury-inducing sight. Any Man—anyone in the Empire, really, Man or Elf—would recognize that uniform. And not Thalmor foot soldiers, no—they're Justiciars, mage-warriors known for their disgusting habit of playing with their food. They're arrogant, haughty creatures who believe themselves superior to all other races, though most especially the Men and the Beastfolk. They are universally reviled, excepting perhaps the Khajiit of the southern deserts—but that doesn't much count with cats stuck on moon sugar.

"What're they doing here?" Vladek growls. He nearly rises to his feet for a better look, before Ralof drags him back into his seat.

"Calm your anger," says Ralof, though his teeth are bared. "We'll see soon enough."

"Those bastards better not try anything," he spits.

He doesn't need to look back to feel Ulfric's anger rising as well. Every veteran of the Great War knows the same hatred. The Thalmor were especially hateful to the Nords, by forcing the Concordat, by stealing their god. They'd _gloried_ in it. Vladek has to grip his knees with his nails, using the pain as an anchor.

They can't hear anything from where they sit. Watching, though, they see what looks like the head of the Thalmor's group speaking on horseback to the head of the procession—or rather, they're arguing, gesticulating back and forth between the carts and a brown shape on the back of one of their horses.

"What do they have there?" Vladek asks, squinting. It appears to be a burlap sack; yet, looking down at his own sack, he realizes it's another prisoner. They want to put another prisoner on their cart. He tells Ralof as much.

"Why do they need the Empire to kill their prisoners?" he asks, puzzled.

Ralof lets out a bitter laugh. "You honestly think they're not in bed with each other? Have you forgotten the treaty?"

The White-Gold Concordat, the peace treaty that denounced Talos from godhood. No one could forget it if they called themselves a Nord.

"Can't they kill their own prisoners?" Vladek tries. "Why bring them here?"

"What does it matter?" snaps Ralof. His usually amiable face takes on a harsh light. "We're going to die. We won't ever know, will we?"

Vladek stares at him, then looks away. He can't disagree. Still, he continues to watch as the two captains argue, gestures growing larger and more rude, until the Imperial captain finally gives in, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Vladek forces himself to sit as still as possible as the Thalmor group approaches their cart, the only cart with room, while the Imperial captain trundles behind.

The Thalmor dismount when they reach their cart. The brown sack is as Vladek guessed: it's another prisoner—though strangely it's an Altmer, dark golden skin and long yellow hair, his person dirty and patched with dry bloodstains. He hangs limply off the back of the horse, both hands and ankles bound by strong rope. Two of the Thalmor grab the Altmer and pull him off the horse, letting his long legs drag as they carry him to the cart.

The captain of the Thalmor stands near Ulfric and supervises the affair. She has the long thin features of most elves, though her nose and mouth seem dainty and small compared to the rest of her. Her high cheekbones and hooded eyelids give her an imperious look; the way she stands, feet angled precisely, chin high, arms crossed at her back, suggests a high upbringing. Vladek cannot see her hair behind her hood, but he believes the color to be white: She has that edged quality that implies experience, and thus an advanced age.

"Ah, Ulfric," she says, her voice high and cultured. She barely glances at the man. "I see you are doing well for your position."

Ulfric turns a ruddy red color, something similar to snowberries. It's not from embarrassment. He vibrates with anger, the madness coming off him in waves. His fists clench until the rope audibly pops in place. He lets out an enraged muffled sound from behind his gag.

"I see you remember me," she says, a hint of a smile in her otherwise unaffected tone. "The pleasure is all yours, I daresay. Frankly, I'm not here for you at the moment," she adds, watching as the new prisoner is dropped into the seat next to Vladek. "Other business, you understand. Otherwise I would not be opposed to catching up on old times."

Vladek doesn't see Ulfric's response. His view is obstructed by a long sallow face nearly toppling into his own. The Altmer, as all Altmer are, is taller than him, even while slumping in his seat; he's almost completely bent over Vladek, his jaw pressed to Vladek's cheek. Looking down, he watches as a Thalmor agent cuts through the Altmer's ankle bonds with a dagger.

Finished, the Thalmor return to their horses, their captain last to saddle. She smiles near beatifically at Ulfric before one of hers calls out, "First Emissary?"

"Yes, I'm coming," she says, though there's a sharpness to her words. She turns to Ulfric and says, "I look forward to our next meeting, dear Ulfric. Perhaps then we will conclude our business."

She mounts, and they ride off as quick as they came, the Imperial captain scowling after them. Meanwhile, Vladek lets out a long sigh and tries to push the Altmer away from him. Unfortunately, it's like pushing riverweed: the Altmer returns in place as soon as the cart moves.

"I've done something to anger the gods," Vladek mutters.

"Perhaps," Ralof says, his suspicious eyes riveted to the Altmer, "we all have."

 

* * *

 

They stop once more to throw another prisoner on their cart, a filthy Nord in the familiar roughspun tunic, and then the march continues into the night. The Altmer doesn't wake, preferring to lean on Vladek instead of Ulfric—considering Ulfric's poisonous looks, Vladek wonders if the Altmer subconsciously chose him as the safer option—and Ralof entertains himself by questioning the other Nord.

"Come now," says Ralof with false cheer, "if you're here, you must have done something to anger the Imperials."

"I'm an innocent man!" cries the Nord, glaring. "I don't deserve this! I'm not one of you rebels!"

"Certainly," say Ralof, and he points at Vladek and the Altmer. "Obviously, we're not all part of the same band. But are we not all brothers in chains?"

"I'm a horse-thief, not a rebel!" he replies hotly.

"Ah, and you said you were innocent!"

"And I am! For the crimes they say I did!"

"Shut up back there," snaps the cart driver. It's really a miracle that he hasn't yelled at them earlier.

There's a lull in the conversation. Vladek looks up at the auroras, then glances at the treeline. The darkness hides most of the undergrowth; fear wells up in his belly when he thinks of Jani out there, lost, searching for him. He tries not to think on it. Another hour passes in this fashion, the four of them staring into the dark night or up at the sky, until Vladek feels a shift from the Altmer.

The Altmer's deep breathing hitches; a moment later his eyes snap open, meeting Vladek's eye-to-eye, a dark orange color that matches his skin. His eyes dart around Vladek's face before falling on his blue irises, his pale skin, his broad nose, his full lips, his square features—Vladek can tell the exact moment when the Altmer registers that he is lying next to a Nord.

He gasps and jumps away, jolting the cart before settling into his seat. When his back touches Ulfric, the Altmer wheels around; the fiery glare he receives sends him back to Vladek, the back of his neck to Vladek's nose—the elf smells like blood and dirt, he thinks. The Altmer grasps the side of the cart, panting, before looking around at the other two Nords and groaning long and loud.

"Tell me this is a nightmare." His voice is a low tenor; his accent is on par with the Thalmor emissary for cultured and smarmy. "I am in a cart surrounded by Nords, of all things."

Vladek makes a coughing noise. His face is still pressed into the Altmer's neck. The Altmer turns to him and wrinkles his face in disgust.

"Are you sniffing my person?" The Altmer rips himself away from Vladek.

"Er, no," says Vladek, feeling out of his element. He's never met anyone with such a posh accent. The richest man he's ever met was one of those grape farmers near Skingrad, who sold mulch and manure. "You were...pressed against me."

"Doubtful," the Altmer sniffs. He lifts his hands to his hair, presumably to set the long dirty strands to rights, but freezes when he sees the ropes binding him. "Oh, for the love of Auri-El. I've truly found myself in a nightmare, haven't I?"

Vladek does his best to move as far as he can from the Altmer. Inconspicuous is hard when there's barely any room, though, and all it does is draw the Altmer's attention to him.

"You," he says, pointing regally with a single finger. The effect is ruined by his tied arms. "Tell me the date and time."

Vladek shares a glance with Ralof. Ralof shrugs, his eyes narrowed on the elf. The horse-thief looks on with an incredulous expression, mouth agape.

"Uh, night," say Vladek uncertainly. He glances at the moons and does a little math. "Two days, I think, since we were put on the cart. For you? I don't know, a day and a half?"

The look he's rewarded with is unflattering. He feels slightly embarrassed for himself, though he has no idea why. Perhaps the withering quality to the elf's glare; it reminds him of his ma.

The Altmer says something in Aldmeris, the tongue of his kind. It sounds lilting and musical in quality, but the content sounds rather sharp and nasty. "You," he says in Tamrielic, "are a qualified moron. Do you not know your rectum from your sword-arm?"

Vladek doesn't know whether to feel angry or confused with such a flamboyant attitude. The word "rectum" is new to him; it sounds Imperial. "Yes?" he offers.

The Altmer snorts, shaking his head. He turns to Ralof and the horse-thief. "You two. Where is our destination, and at what time is our arrival?"

The horse thief's face twists into a thin-lipped scowl. "You're kidding me."

"We'd be more helpful to a less bull-mannered elf," says Ralof stiffly. He eyes the Altmer and seems unimpressed. "A skeever could take a lesson from you."

The Altmer's eyes narrow. "Is that so?"

"I could bet my life-savings on it."

"All twenty goats, I'm sure."

Ralof hisses. "If it weren't for the rope, I'd have your neck wrung, elf."

"Oh?" jeers the Altmer. He lifts his chin, exposing his neck. "Why, don't let me stop you. Can't neglect your piss-poor Nord honor, can we?"

" _Stop_ ," snaps Vladek, fists clenched. Ralof's eyes flick to him, but he doesn't curb the half-formed snarl on his face. The Altmer, as though Ralof were an uninteresting fly on the wall, turns to Vladek, his brows furrowed. "Don't give them a reason to kill us sooner," Vladek explains, inclining his head to the guards. "There's no hurry."

The Altmer appraises him carefully, a haughty look on his face.

Vladek glares at him. With a distinctly childish roll of his eyes—even Jani has never dared try that one on him—the Altmer huffs out a breath.

"Fine," he grumbles, after Vladek stares at him with reproval for a long moment. "Arguing with a fool proves there are two."

Vladek sighs in relief, relaxing into his seat. "Good."

Ralof mutters a few colorful curses in their mother tongue, but he complies and sinks back, frowning as he looks out into the darkness. The Altmer, however, doesn't look away from Vladek, studying him under the green light of the auroras.

Vladek, uncomfortable under the elf's gaze, stares at the procession ahead, where only the glowing spheres of torches separate the outriders from the black. Even as he falls into a restless daze, he feels the elf's eyes on him.

 

* * *

 

Dawn creeps on them much too soon, and Vladek wakes to sunlight on his face and someone roughly shaking his knees. Groaning from the pain in his neck, he straightens—and finds Ralof giving him such a forlorn expression, Vladek immediately knows the words before they form.

"Last stop?" says Vladek weakly, a shiver crawling down his back. His Nord heritage aside, he feels terribly cold and so very weak in the knees.

"Last stop," Ralof replies. He bows his head.

Vladek looks around the cart. Lokir the horse-thief is huddled into a small ball, muttering the Divines' names in a strange chant. Ulfric is bent over his white-knuckled fists, oddly calm and at peace. When Ulfric looks at Vladek, his eyes hold a strange liveliness. Perhaps, thinks Vladek, he has accepted his death. Vladek could only wish for such composure. Underneath the pale flesh his heart screams for his child, his life, his survival.

Ralof knocks his knees and gestures with his head to the procession up ahead. In the distance they see smoke over the trees, the circular stone facade of the keep's towers, the thatched straw roofs, the widening of the stone-paved road. The relentless pace the procession kept had slowed sometime while he slept, and they now barely plod along, their driver's shoulders slumped from exhaustion. He and Ralof exchange a glance: It's a bleak turn of the face, with deep furrows, and the far-off stare suggests a mind thinking a thousand thoughts at once. It's the reflection of his own state.

Through the frenzy inside his mind, Vladek thinks of his daughter. It's what keeps him both from screaming in outrage and from weeping in defeat. His talisman, his personal Amulet of Talos.

Finally recognizing the warmth at his side, he finds the Altmer leaning his head on Vladek's shoulder. Sleeping, then, Vladek thinks. Morose for the news he's about to deliver, Vladek gently nudges the elf awake.

Ralof looks up and snorts at his soft treatment. "Don't bother."

"It's only right," says Vladek flatly.

"We'll have no end of his whining."

"Should a man not be warned when his time is near?"

"That's an elf. I see no man."

"You know my meaning," Vladek says stubbornly. "Did you not say yourself that we're all brothers in chains?"

Ralof's eyes turn flinty. "There are always exceptions."

Vladek shrugs, shaking his head. Turning from Ralof, he finds to his puzzlement the elf is not breathing the deep draws of sleep—his eyelids are too delicately closed, his face not quite slack enough. Wondering over the charade, Vladek shakes the Altmer hard enough to be convincing, though not so hard as to rattle his rather thin frame.

The Altmer shudders awake, yawning into his bound palms. He stretches himself out, his legs kicking Ralof in the shins. When Ralof complains, the Altmer says, in a rather smug voice, "Oh, do stop your whining, Nord."

Ralof glares. Vladek stifles a smile, though he sobers when he notices the Altmer studying him with that same curious look in his eye.

Vladek coughs. "Er, you're awake."

"I've noticed," says the Altmer. He doesn't blink. The shrewd reptilian expression reminds him of an Argonian.

"We're almost there," he says, averting his eyes. He turns instead to stare at the looming gate. "Almost at the end."

The Altmer shifts in his seat. "I would hope so," he sniffs, though there's a waver in his voice. "I thought Cyrodiil politeness demanded timely arrivals. This is far too fashionably late."

It's in poor taste, but Vladek snorts anyway. "Probably too busy triple-checking the paperwork."

"Indeed." When Vladek looks a him, he finds the Altmer nodding his head. Ralof eyes the two of them with a mix of disbelief and disgust. Vladek shrugs at him and then turns to the growing outline of the village. The sight sobers him quickly.

It's another long silence. The cart rolls on, shaking and tilting left to right, reminding him of a ship on water. The thought of the sea he would never see again forces a lump to rise up his throat, bile trapped between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It's difficult to swallow. His heart is racing swifter than a falcon, yet to his ears it feels as slow as the plodding pace of the horses. Every breath is a struggle. He glances around the cart, at the climbing sun, the wind as it tickles his ears and stubbled jaw, the dark blue silhouettes of the moutains in the distance, the birds flying over the treetops, at the snowberry bushes along the trail, the blue blurs mixed in with the oranges and yellows of the undergrowth—

Vladek stops breathing.

He doesn't know what he's seen until he replays it in his mind a dozen times. Several blue blurs, silvery blues, reminiscent of snow fox pelts, but too big to be the animals themselves. Too colorful to be hunters in camouflage, too large to be woodland beasts. What in the name of Oblivion had he seen?

A hand lands on his knees and he jumps. Startled, he follows the gold hand to its owner, his breath coming in harsh pants. The Altmer's eyes bore into his, and Vladek can almost swear there's a trace of concern somewhere, though it's buried deep under the obvious irritation.

"If you're quite done panicking," he says in an clipped tone, "I would appreciate you inspecting my foot."

The strange request throws off Vladek's train of thought completely. Without noticing, his breath settles to a more bearable pattern.

"Pardon?"

"You heard me." He raises his eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you are deaf as well as dumb."

Taking in a calming breath, Vladek sneaks a glance at Ralof. Surprisingly, Ralof nods his head in encouragement. The Altmer gives him a pointed look, as if to say, "What are you waiting for?"

Feeling both confused and exasperated, Vladek sighs. "Then put up your foot so I can take a look."

The Altmer glares. "I would prefer not to move it."

"What, is it in so much pain you can't lift it?"

"Why, yes, you moronic idiot. Now, if you would, please kindly _lower your face_ and inspect it. I do not wish to repeat myself."

There's an undercurrent of emotion Vladek can't identify. Frustrated by the elf's demands and Ralof's silence, he bends over until he's eye-to-toe with a long golden foot. It's large and lanky, much like its owner, and the toes wiggle in an oddly friendly way through a hole in the burlap footwraps. The only thing off is the smell, though Vladek has no doubt his smell similar.

"There doesn't seem—" he begins.

" _Look closer_ ," hisses the Altmer. He's bent at the waist, his eyes narrowed to slits.

Vladek returns to the foot and stops. The big toe points at a knothole in the floor of the cart. The hole itself is unremarkable, but what causes Vladek to freeze is the bright blue inside of it. A blue eye, framed with blond lashes and a dark purple bag, stares at him. The eye blinks back tears. The cart sways, and he sees the dirt-streaked skin of a plump cheek.

 _Jani_ , he mouthes. No sound comes out. The relief that sweeps over him is overwhelming. He can't move.

"As I said, is my foot unharmed?" says the Altmer.

Vladek splutters incoherently for a moment before a golden foot kicks him in the arm. He manages to mutter, "It looks a bit wear-worn, from what I see."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," he says grimly, straightening in his seat. His eyes never leave the blue one. "How long has it been hurting you?"

The Altmer pauses. "I do not know. It could have hurt long before this, though I noticed only just a few minutes ago."

Somehow, whether during the night or over the two days of travel, Jani had stuck herself underneath their cart and was riding with them to Helgen. The pride rivals the fear in his belly.

He looks to Ralof. "Had you noticed?"

Ralof shakes his head. "Only just now, friend."

Vladek can't help the frightened expression he's sure is blantantly covering his whole face. He alternates between glancing at Jani's equally terrified eye and the Altmer's careful aloofness. The possibilities run amok in Vladek's mind, of possible escape and the horrible chance of her capture. What would the Imperials do if they found her? He can't imagine leniency when the stakes are so high. The whole civil war hinges on Ulfric's death. A single young life may be forfeit for that gamble.

The horse-thief is still curled up and oblivious, which is ultimately a blessing, Vladek thinks. The man is as subtle as a rampaging giant, and escape would be much harder with such a liability. Ulfric, on the other hand, although still bent over his knees, is staring down at Jani's eye with much the same intensity as Vladek is. The gag can't completely hide his grimace.

The silence this time is tense and—perhaps it is Vladek's view tinging the atmosphere—hopeful. They glance at each other, sharing motives behind their eyes, though when they speak it is in code. The Altmer asks him to check his foot, and though the driver tells them for one heart-stopping moment to shut up about his foot, he won't need it soon enough, Vladek manages to half-whisper, half-mouth a conversation with Jani.

 _Do you have my dagger?_ he manages after a couple of halting starts.

 _No_ , Jani replies, crying silently, _they took everything_.

He tries to spread this information around, though the rest of the three only understand that immediate escape is not possible.

"Tell my foot it needs _sharper nails!_ " the Altmer snaps when he learns this. The driver gives them a funny look, and Ulfric has to quickly cover the knothole with his boot. The rest breathe with relief.

The large wooden gate of Helgen is what calls for their heightened desperation. The carts slowly pass through and under the gate's balcony—Vladek looks up and around, watching the shadow passing over them, how the sun is blocked out, how the guards on the balcony crane their necks at an angle to get a good look at them, the pigs heading for slaughter—and make their way through the village.

As they turn in a circle around the fortified tower, a small crowd starts to gather outside of their houses, watching from their porches as the carts move. Vladek feels gooseflesh pop along his arms and neck; surely with such a number of people watching, one would see Jani under the cart. The guards flanking them on their horses seem to form a visual barrier, but the paranoia of discovery does not disappear.

"I wonder if Vilod is still making his mead with the juniper berries mixed in," Ralof muses quietly. "Wonder if I'll ever taste it again?"

The Altmer, who's been watching the knothole with a burning interest, looks up and over his shoulder. He stiffens in his seat, so much so that Vladek can feel the air tense around him.

"Elenwen," he says, his voice wavering. When Vladek glances over, he finds the hooded Thalmor astride their horses, forming a guard by the gate. Ulfric sits just as stiffly next to him, following their movements just as closely.

Ignoring them, Vladek looks to Jani's eye, sighing. He tries a smile, a sort of twisted, dazed effect that produces the opposite emotion: her eye tears up, and he feels every inch a jackass. He curses himself for his irresponsibility, his failure as a parent, his stupidity, and it takes all he has not to join her mute weeping.

Even Hilja would have been a better parent than him, Vladek thinks darkly.

The abrupt ceasing of movement spurs his thoughts forward in a break-neck fervor: the cart clatters short, the horses snort, the driver sighs, the guards dismount and surround them, the other two carts pull up beside them, and from his limited vantage point, Vladek watches as the other Stormcloaks are forced off their carts, their expressions just as grim as his thoughts. Even as they're called to stand and leave their cart, Vladek holds Jani's gaze until he is the only one left standing.

"Stormcloak, get down!" shouts a guard.

Vladek sighs and lowers himself unsteadily from the cart, his heart breaking anew.

Vladek finds himself standing next to the Altmer, whose back is straight and shoulders pulled almost too far back. Their positions in the cart didn't bring the Altmer's height justice—he's about a head taller than Ralof, who's the tallest in their small group. He feels for the first time rather small and dumpy compared to another man, and it's strangely comic in its own way. As if reading his thoughts, the Altmer glances down at Vladek and his lips twitch up in the beginnings of a smug smile. Vladek holds back from scoffing. The Altmer's arrogance is a comfort in its own way, he supposes.

Ahead of their group is a Nord man in Legion armor with a piece of parchment in hand, a quill in the other. His brunet and tan coloring are a bit strange, especially compared to Ralof's and Vladek's lighter complexions; his muscular build reminds Vladek of what he thought of Ralof: farming stock, peasant-kind, the sort to join the Legion in the first place. To Vladek's disgust and flaring temper, the woman who put him in this mess to begin with stands next to him, arms crossed and the same dictatorial, high-handed manner in her bearing.

"Ralof, of Riverwood," the Nord calls, his accent a mix of the old language and clipped Imperial diction. It reminds Vladek of Jani's own ambivalent inflection, her allegiance caught between two cultures.

Ralof steps forward, head held high and feet sure. His eyes hold such bare contempt for the Nord man, Vladek struggles to reign in his surprise. Ralof nods to the man, gives Ulfric a half-bow, and then stride confidently to where the rest of the Stormcloaks are gathered. Vladek notes with wide eyes the stump and basket that are to be their execution grounds. From across the field a figure clad in black makes his way to the stump, his face covered by a hood.

He turns away.

"Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, of Windhelm," the man says, his voice almost contemplative.

Even gagged and bound, Ulfric still creates a strong presence. Both Stormcloaks and Legionnaires alike unabashedly stare as Ulfric holds the Nord's eyes, nods his head in acceptance, and strides regally through the crowd, Stormcloaks parting in his wake. He stands at the head of the mass of blue, looking for all the world disinterested in the bloody tree stump, the priestess of the death god, the executioner garbed in black. A murmur passes through the townsfolk watching, a few parents bidding their children go inside; the unease tinges the wind as it passes through, mixing the smell of hay and horse with that of fear.

The captain, the tanned Imperial woman, purses her lips. With a frustrated sound, she snaps, "Next, Hadvar!"

Hadvar, who had been looking on Ulfric's scene with a small glimmer of interest, clears his throat. "Lokir, of Rorikstead."

The horse-thief steps up, his legs shaking. His eyes shift erratically back and forth, his breath coming in shallow pants. He lets out a long breath, and then shouts, "I'm not a rebel!"

"No," the captain says coldly, "you're a thief and murderer. And you'll be executed along with the rest of the criminals here."

The horse-thief recoils as though slapped, holding his hands up in surrender. "Please, I don't deserve this! I'm—I—"

Her eyes narrow. "Send him to the block," she says.

Convinced of the futility of shouting, the horse-thief makes a decision—Vladek sees it play across his face in quick flashes—and then, with a quick push-off, he's fleeing, a wiry speed to him that Vladek hadn't anticipated. He kicks up dirt as he runs, shoving passed a shocked Ralof, making it as far as the circular tower before the captain cries out an order and a team of archers atop the tower shoot him down, puncturing him through the head, heart, and back. He's dead before he knows it, dropping down heavily onto his face, convulsing for a few agonizing movements before he falls silent and still.

Vladek and the Altmer share a look, something between pity and harsh realization, before turning back to Hadvar and his list, both their faces blank. Hadvar watches them, his eyes downcast—a young man, then, not used to such quick, senseless death—and finally, after a look from the captain, calls out, "Arrivarim, of Alinor."

The Altmer, Arrivarim, sighs. A quick moment, and he turns to Vladek, bows his head, and makes his way to stand in small clearing away from the Stormcloaks. He looks almost as if he's strolling, and the thought brings a slight smile to Vladek's face. The Stormcloaks surrounding Arrivarim shoot him distrusting looks, Ralof the only one among them who seems somewhat content standing near him.

Alone now, Vladek breathes in deeply. He waits for his name, waits for the inevitable dread to wash over him. But after a long few moments, still Hadvar combs over his list, rereading the contents with a surly expression. Another read-through, and he turns to the captain.

"Captain, he's not on the list," he says.

"That's by my orders," she says, snorting. "Picked him up along with Ulfric. His rebel friends won't give up his name, for whatever reason."

Vladek hesitates for a second before he says hesitantly, "I'm not a Stormcloak."

The two look at him, the captain clearly annoyed, Hadvar confused.

"Captain?"

"We recovered a box with the Stormcloak insignia where we found him," she spits. "He also carried a sword of Stormcloak-make. If that's not enough to condemn him, then I resign my post right here and now!"

Realizing his chance, Vladek says quickly, loudly, "My name is Vladek Bear-Heart. The insignia is my family crest, it isn't the same as Windhelm's totem!"

She snorts. "How convenient for you."

"No, please, believe me, I came to see my family! Inside the box is a ring, please look, you will see—it has the same crest, the bear's our clan-name. And the sword came from a guard tower—"

A flash of steel, and Vladek finds himself on the ground, his jaw aching. The world blurs. He faintly hears someone speaking over the buzzing in his ears. A moment later, and someone pulls him up and steadies him on his feet.

"Easy there," says the voice of Hadvar. They start walking forward, towards the crowd of Stormcloaks. The crowd looks on with pity and anger, a few brave men jeering at the captain. When they've reached Ralof's side, Hadvar lets him go. "I'm sorry," he adds quietly. "At least you'll die in your homeland, kinsman."

Once Hadvar leaves, Ralof asks, "All right?"

Vladek sighs. His head is throbbing. "As fine as ever."

The Altmer, who stands a little ways away, studies him quietly. "You're bleeding," he mutters.

Vladek shrugs, then winces as it jostles his head. "Not the first time," he says. He ignores their stares and looks back towards the wagons. From his vantage point their wooden underbellies are invisible. It's what gives him the strength to turn his head forward, away from the possibilities. Lokir's death is still much too fresh.

Without thinking, without even realizing it, he looks to his two companions and stares them straight in the eye. His distorted reflection stares back from their pupils, and he see himself as simply a filthy, desperate man, one with crazed eyes and a determined set to his jaw.

"Get her out," he says quietly, nearly muttering. He repeats this again to each stunned man's face in turn. And then he adds, in a broken voice, "If you get the chance. Get her out of here. _Please_."

He's pleading now. His words sound unrecognizable as his own.

There's a moment, an infinite stretch of time within a single second, and it feels physical. They eye one another warily, until the moment ends and Vladek feels his shoulders loosen. He feels far from the brave man he's supposed to be, the old Nord who faces death head-on. At his side Ralof and Arrivarim look very similar to him in that defeated way.

"Yes, yes," mutters the elf, nodding furiously, "of course."

"Aye," says Ralof simply. "I'll try."

"Thank you," breathes Vladek.

And just like that the three men look on the bloody stump and basket with somber eyes.

 _I'm going to die_ , thinks Vladek. And he prays.

 

* * *

 

At the very peak of the Snow-Throat, at the highest place in all the continent of Tamriel, a moment of time is stretched beyond any conceivable proportion, ballooned outward until the very fabric of space concedes defeat. A tear is formed. Or rather, a tear _was_ formed. And soon enough another tear _will be_ formed, but that is another matter. 

There is only one being who witnesses this. He looks on with a mixture of happiness and dread—for does a brother not look on his kin's arrival with ambivalence? Oh, his soul cries out with such unfathomable joy, yet his mind knows well the price of reuniting. No doubt his brothers across the world share his uncertainties, dazed and riven as they are by the Eldest's return—and no being will feel this rift more strongly than their youngest, their mortal soul calling weakly from the base of the Snow-Throat.

It is only a matter of time, he thinks. Oh, but if Prophecy were ever so simple.

The tear widens, stretches, heeds the command of its prisoner, shifts along the edge of the precipice that shapes the Mundus, until—with a shout to rival the winds of Kyne—a great blackness rushes unimpeded through the hole: And as the black wings break open into the cold, unfurled like drifting gales of night-sky, Paarthurnax turns and flees from the Snow-Throat, his soul heavy, his heart torn, his mind urging him forward, forward on; for the Eldest has returned, the greatest of their race, and there is no mercy for any who stands in His path.

Alduin World-Eater, Eldest-born of Akatosh, bane of Kings, hungers once again.

 

* * *

 

Clutching tight to the wood, her eyes shut tightly in fear, her cheeks damp with hot tears, she hears and knows the words of pure fury shouted across the winds:

WHERE IS MY KINGDOM?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [For your consideration.](https://www.reddit.com/r/teslore/comments/1sjdb2/skyrim_nords_and_foreign_nords/cdy66fh)


	4. III. An Unsettling Hunger

**III.** _An Unsettling Hunger_

 

* * *

 

" _It's an end to the age_  
_Of the ancient one's rest..._ "

"Oi, Vlad!"

Vladek looked up, scowling fiercely. He hated that nickname.

From where he sat by the chicken coop, young Vladek watched as his older brother ran towards him, his spotty face red from exertion. From the dirt stains on his trousers and the mud sliming up his knee-high leather boots, Asvaldr had just come from the fields. Vladek glowered; at five years old, Vladek wanted nothing to do with potatoes, or barley, or oats, or anything that grew out of ground. The chickens were much nicer company. They preferred his singing.

Fifteen-year-old Asvaldr was no pretty picture. Puberty had altered him into an entirely different creature, spots and hair on every surface, and a body with too-long limbs and an awkward barrel of a chest. He appeared more like a potato with sticks for limbs than a real person, if one looked at him from far enough away. In Vladek's opinion, however, the worst thing about his new manhood was the pompous, self-righteous attitude that came with it. Just because he was ten years older, Asvaldr thought he could boss Vladek around like a servant. Well, he had another think coming, if Vladek had anything to say about it.

"Valdimir, stop your warbling and c'mon!" said Asvaldr, slowing to a walk. He crossed his arms, a pale imitation of their father, and squinted down at him. "Da wants you."

"Aye dun wanna," grumbled Vladek in Tamrielic. He resolutely stayed crouched by the coop, glaring up at his brother. As if sensing his temper, the hens broke out into fits of clucking and shrieking. His arms wrapped protectively around Svana, his favorite. She watched Asvaldr with cautious, beady eyes.

"What's that?" asked Asvaldr, sneering. "Can't understand you."

Vladek sneered back. "En't wanna do it."

"Sorry, I don't speak Imperial," he said in their mother tongue. Although he could speak Tamrielic perfectly fine, their father found it too elf-like, too dishonest, and the new Asvaldr lived to please him. Vladek, on the other hand, thought it beautiful and lilting; he made it a point to speak it around his brother whenever he got the chance. "But if I _did_ speak priss, I'd say you get your lazy ass out to Da before he brings out the belt."

The mere mention of the Belt had Vladek's rear twitching in memory. Svana's feathers fluffed out indignantly on his behalf.

"Nah he wooln't," muttered Vladek. But his voice faltered. Seeing his brother's prim expression was what sealed it — their father wanted to talk seriously, as he did whenever the mood struck him, and it would be in his best interest to get there as soon as possible. Vladek wasn't ashamed of fearing him. Nothing scared a Nord more than his father. Except, of course, his mother.

Carefully stowing Svana away, with more than a bit of petulance in his motions, he latched the coop and stood up. Asvaldr shook his head, an irritated frown on his lips, and then turned and ran the way he came. Vladek ran after him, though his strides didn't yet match the fast pace.

Soon enough they came to a green-dappled field, a large clearing in the middle of Riften's forests. Generations ago, the great hunters of Skyrim's clans chased a bear throughout the land, until finally they caught it in the Great Fall Forest. Apparently, according to the legend, the bear was the god Stuhn, and he taught these hunters mercy through a quick, clean death. How you could kill a god was something Vladek had yet to know — but in any case, when the bear died, his corpse repaid the mercy of the hunters and became the fertile earth, from where a bounty of crops flowed. His mother called it their family's inheritance.

The sunshine gleamed through the autumnal leaves, streaking the loamy soil in slashes of white. The musk of petrichor permeated the air. A large rainfall had passed through earlier in the week, flooding the dirt until it ran like sludge. For days now Vladek and his family had to wear their rainy season boots, despite it being the end of summer, when it usually was closer to dry clay. It was horribly unfair for Vladek, since he wasn't allowed to play in the mud by his mother; instead he was expected to scoop up buckets of brackish water and run them to the river, back and forth in monotonous routine.

Their father Gundthram stood in the middle of the field, between two rows of crops, his face laden with perspiration and weariness, his frame hunched over the remains of a scarecrow. He was a tall, wide man, built like a bear, and as hairy as one, too. His brown-blond hair was long and coarse on both head and chin, with enough braids and knots to give the impression of a Khajiit's mane. His arms and thighs were as thick as tree trunks — or at least they seemed that way to young Vladek — and the pale skin of his bare neck and arms was tanned to a dark pink. His face was just as intimidating: His father had broad and square features, large flaring nostrils, somber black eyes, and a deeply furrowed brow. He always looked like he was about to scold someone, no matter whether that someone was a person or a goat. (And as it so happened, he often quarreled with Ol' Eydis when he thought no one else was around.)

"Da! I brought him!" shouted Asvaldr, keeping to the outside of the field. Vladek reluctantly stopped beside him, shooting the potato plants a dark look.

Their father slowly lifted his head and looked to them. Everything he did was slow in a dignified sort of way, as if he didn't dare waste motion. It often gave strangers the notion he was being sarcastic. If they knew Gundthram, though, they would know he was genuine in every action he took. Sarcasm was lost on him.

"Ah. Good," he said. His voice held a subtle burr, the accent of the lowborn. "Come, lads."

Asvaldr led them to him, taking care not to trample on the crops. Once there, they followed Gundthram's eyes to a point in the distance. As far as Vladek could see, there was nothing of interest beyond the wooden fence enclosing their land and the greater forest beyond. For a long time all three stood there watching the humid wind as it flushed out leaves from the canopy of the forest. Vladek fidgeted in place, wondering what they were waiting for — but it wouldn't be his place to speak before his elder, as their mother taught them, and he held his tongue.

After a time, his father finally said, "This land's ours. Been so a long while."

"Yes, sir," answered Asvaldr dutifully, as manners dictated. "A long while."

Vladek stared glumly at the mud, wiggling his toes. He said nothing. There was no point when the two of them got in this contemplative mood.

"Inherited the land from my father," he continued, without acknowledging Asvaldr's lip service, "who got it from his father, who inherited from his father, and so on and so forth, for as long back as when the gods gave it to our first ancestors. A mighty long time."

"Mighty long," echoed Asvaldr. He tried to match their father's hunched pose. It made him look like he did after a bad batch of porridge.

"Been wondering of inheritance."

"You have?" asked Asvaldr, hesistating. "I mean, sir."

"Well I have, lad."

"Excuse me, but why's that?"

"I reckon I'm gonna die soon enough," said Gundthram easily, as if it weren't a matter of consequence, and both sons jerked their heads to look at him, wide-eyed. "Feel it in my bones. Ain't getting younger."

There was a pause. Vladek and his brother stared. The meaning barely penetrated their minds before Gundthram went on about equal shares, and the family deed, and informing the Jarl's steward, sounding as though he'd memorized a speech. Vladek didn't hear a word of it, his ears were so fuzzy.

"But Da," interrupted Asvaldr, his respectful tone gone, "you're only thirty-three!"

"Am I?" His voice was mild, but his tired eyes roamed the treetops with a studied fervor. "Don't feel like it, lad. Been at this game since I were your age."

"No, Da!" cried Vladek, his lips wobbling. He'd seen a number of deaths in his short life, but to hear his father speak so flippantly of his own was frightening. "You're not gonna die!"

Gundthram glanced down at him. "Afraid I am."

"No —" Vladek futilely grabbed at the words in his mind, searching for an answer. His breath came short and quick, and his eyes watered. He realized he was shaking. "No," he sputtered, reaching, "— no, thas not — Da, you can't, you _can't_ —"

Speaking over his words was an equally flustered Asvaldr. "Da, you're real young, don't you think you're being too, too — this's too much, don't you think —"

Gundthram raised his hand, and their mouths slammed shut. His expression was grim, but his eyes held a sympathetic gleam.

"Calm yourselves," he said. He gazed first at Asvaldr's flushed face, his worried grimace, and then to Vladek and his too-bright eyes. With a groan and a clicking sound, he kneeled on the ground, his eyes about level with Vladek's. He patted Vladek roughly on his curls; it felt like being swatted by a horse's tail. "Come now, boy. Hold the tears."

Choking on the ball at the back of his throat, Vladek blinked his eyes furiously and bit his lip. When he was sure no tears would fall, he said quickly, "You can't die, please, Da!"

"No," said their father, shaking his head, "I can't right well say I won't."

"But why now?" This was Asvaldr's cracking voice. "Why're you saying all this?"

"Because it needs to be done," was the reply. His voice was resolute, stubborn. "I ain't getting younger, lads. I'll die one day, and you two need to know, just as your ma does. I'm gonna die soon enough," he repeated, and this time he met their eyes face on, his own eyes firm. "I need to know you understand."

"No!" cried Vladek, stamping his feet. "No, stop it! Stop it right now!"

His father looked disappointed by this; his eyes closed briefly. Then he opened them and said, his tone a little too sharp, "I ain't asking for permission, lad."

"But you can't!" Vladek looked to his brother, in search of an ally, but he was met by a sad, defeated Asvaldr. He searched wildly around the field, hoping for inspiration, yet nothing powerful came to mind.

"Valdimir, look at me," said Gundthram. Vladek reluctantly obeyed. "This doesn't mean I'm dead tomorrow. And it ain't meaning I'm wanting you to mourn and carry on when I do. It means I'm only making way for the next, as is the way of the world. You see?"

His eyes were twin pieces of coal on a waning flame. The peak of his nose separated the wrinkled valleys of his cheeks; his pores were filled with soil and sweat; his unruly eyebrows were punctuated by deep furrows; and his mouth, lined and grooved, held a strange air, something ageless and sorrowful. He looked as though he were carved from stone rather than flesh. Later in his life, Vladek would stare into a mirror and wonder at the reflection of his father.

"You're gonna leave us?" asked Vladek carefully. He didn't completely understand, couldn't quite grasp it, yet he tried. "One day, right?"

"No," said his father, shaking his head, "not if I can help it. But everyone has to move on."

 

* * *

 

It was the moons that greeted him when night fell. They were the only welcoming sight Vladek had seen in weeks. Their cratered facades were as bright as the auroras, purple and white and green a guiding beacon as he picked his way lightly, carefully through the darkness. He didn't want to light a torch, just in case. It was cowardly, he knew, to run off in the middle of the night, taking off like a thief, but sometimes things just had to be done like that.

His family was unbearable these days. The minute he'd turned eighteen, they hounded him about shares in the farm, marriage, employment in Riften and Windhelm, even going so far as to carry on about duty, about responsibility, about the _proper_ way of things, as his brother put it. The annoying fat lot of them, fluttering around his head like flies on shit.

Who cared if Vladek wasn't happy, or if they themselves were miserable, or if the world was changing? Apparently they didn't. They were blind to it all, caught up as they were in crops and topsoil and oxes, such trivial things, unwilling to see the whole of the continent was being swept up in chaotic revolution, that farming was the least of their concerns. Hadn't they noticed the crossing of eras? Who rightly cared about taxes and market prices when bandit encampments were growing larger, more numerous? Who could honestly be interested in potatoes and barley when there was talk of a looming war on the horizon?

He'd decided long ago he wasn't going to die on the farm without knowing what the world looked like. Today he would make good on this.

Vladek had packed a little of everything he thought he might need; not too much, so as to burden his family, nor too little. He received his own pay when he brought their crops to Riften, so he had a good supply of coin to supplement the bread, cheese, and dried meats. He didn't have a tent or camping supplies, but he knew how to make it all, so that was just as good if not better; at least he had the right skills to live in the wild if it came to that. His knapsack was little more than a blanket, a patched rag that was used as a tarp on rainy days; it was tied around his neck, weight evenly distributed on his shoulders and back.

It was around the early hours of the morning. He'd left as soon as he heard Asvaldr snoring, the lightest sleeper in the family. By the time they woke he'd be almost to Riften — not that anyone would chase him. His brother was the true farmer, the one with the patience and the know-how and that damned sense of maturity Vladek had yet to learn, didn't want to learn. Yes, his stick-in-the-mud brother would be fine. As far as Vladek was concerned he could have it all. His fortune was far away from here.

But before he left, he went around the house to the chicken coop, listening to the near-silent, even breathing of his hens. They were his confidants, in a way. They'd listened to him as he sang, or complained, or hummed, or when he simply wanted to talk to someone who wouldn't tell him he was a milksop with fickle dreams. Despite the old tales, chickens were quite good listeners. You just had to know when to speak up.

He kneeled and squinted into the darkness, eyes hunting for the catch. The light was not enough to see more than the blurry rectangular shape that was the coop. But he'd been to Riften plenty over the years, had some fun friends; he simply felt by his fingertips until he gently swung open the netted door. A few hesitant white shapes turned his way, but they seemed to know it was him. Taking great care with his arms — puberty apparently had a sense of irony, and over the summer had blessed him with twice the weight and height — he stroked each feathery body, counting down the line, until he reached the second-to-last hen.

"Come out, love," he whispered fondly. He clucked his tongue softly and took her out, smiling. "Magnhild, c'mon."

This hen wasn't like his first chick, Svana, but he'd come to love her just the same. She blinked up at him a little blearily, bobbing her head in question.

"Look at you," he said, stroking her feathers. He scratched gently at the base of her neck and cooed nonsense to her. He didn't normally do this — Asvaldr would've laughed his ass all the way up to High Hrothgar if he'd witnessed it — but just tonight, under cover of darkness, he would indulge. "What a pretty little love."

She clucked and shifted in his hands.

"Exactly."

He combed through her feathers one last time before he put her in one hand, the other sifting through his knapsack. He pulled out a letter, one he'd written when last he'd visited Riften, and a piece of string. Humming a tune that he knew she liked, he went about tying it off onto her leg, taking care not to tie it too tightly. Hopefully by tomorrow they'd find it. There wasn't much to read, but there was enough to make sense of what he was doing.

Once he was done, he set about putting her away just a quietly as he did before. When he closed the coop, he drew back and sighed to himself. It was time to go.

"Leaving already?"

Vladek tensed, then exhaled. He turned around and found his father standing at the back of the house, his arms crossed and his expression hidden in shadow from the moons. Vladek could feel them on his back as he straightened.

"Thought you'd be half-way to Riften by now," said Gundthram, his voice soft. It rumbled into nearly a purr. He sounded tired, as if he'd just woken up a minute ago.

"Had to take care of the hens," said Vladek stiffly. He didn't quite know how to react.

"Ah." His father sounded as if this were a good explanation. "Saying farewell to the chickens, eh? Always fond of those things, Valdimir."

He gritted his teeth. "Vladek."

"Pardon?"

"Call me Vladek," he said tightly. In the shadows his father shifted. "It's —" He lost his nerve and looked to his feet, feeling all kinds of foolish. "It's the Imperial way of things," he muttered. "Simplified. Ask Asvaldr. He knows."

"Ah." This time his voice sounded weaker.

"Aye. So." Vladek glanced his way. His father seemed a bit less straight in posture, his stance less accusing. "I'm...leaving. You know, right? I mean, you wouldn't be here if you didn't know."

"Aye," said his father. He was hunched over now. Vladek blinked several times; was this real? "Off to Riften, then the rest, aren't I true?"

"You're true," said Vladek, nodding slowly.

"Off to find your fortune?" There was a distinct bitterness.

"If I can," he replied, his tone equally bitter. He clenched his fists, breathed, then unclenched them. "Make your own way, isn't that what you've always said?"

"I did. I do."

"So that's what I'm doing."

"I gathered."

"And I think Asvaldr would be best for the farm."

"As do I."

"So why," hissed Vladek, impatience creeping in, "are you out here?"

"Because," said his father simply, "I wanted to see you off."

Vladek stood frozen as his father drew near, the light washing over his features. They were now the same height, his father maybe an inch smaller, his frame thinner, his weight dropping steadily as he aged. His clothes, once close on his skin, hung a little off his crooked shoulders. As he walked, Vladek recognized the limp his father hid in the daylight. It was an old injury from his days as a guard and hunter. It is a strange feeling, to realize your father is not invincible. Vladek felt it that day.

When the two of them were a foot away from one another, Gundthram looked Vladek in the eye, and Vladek saw it then: twin coal eyes, too-bright, wet, and reminiscent of when a little boy was told his father would die — not tomorrow, but one day. The lesson came again, but this time he understood.

"You're going to leave us, then?" said his father, voice thick. He awkwardly patted Vladek's shoulder. It still felt like being swatted with a horse's tail.

Vladek swallowed. Then, without taking the time to think on it — for he wouldn't dare try otherwise — he took his father's hand from his shoulder and pulled the old man closer into a very brief embrace. It was over as soon as it began, and the two broke apart in a slow, hesitant way.

And then, smiling a sad smile, Vladek replied, "Everyone has to move on."

 

* * *

 

 _Everyone has to move on_ , Vladek mouths to himself. He smiles wistfully. This is how things are done, he thinks. Even gods die.

At least his death will be quick.

He finds his eyes fluttering along the execution grounds. The Nordic stonework is overlaid by dusty Imperial flags, ragged red over dulled gray. There, at the top of the tower, are the archers in their Legion regalia, readied bows a deterrent for would-be runners. Closing in on their group are Thalmor Justiciars atop their steeds, sharp black figures cutting through the dim human swathes. And to the side, emerging from what seems an ordinary wood house, is an Imperial man dressed to the Nine in a Legate uniform, shiny and immaculate, a cape off the metallic shoulders.

"Tullius," spits Ralof from Vladek's side. Tullius, then, who ignores the Thalmor completely and steps into focus, his pace even and long, his shoulders pulled back not out of pride, but of required confidence. He commands a similar presence to Ulfric's, but the way he stands, the way he seems to scorn the eyes that find him, is at odds with the Jarl's natural illumination. The man stops by the Priestess of Arkay and speaks in a few clipped words. When he jerks his head, she nods, and he turns and strides back to the crowd of Stormcloaks. He stands at firm attention, his eyes fixed on Ulfric's, and they glower at one another with mutual animosity.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," says Tullius, his voice bold. He isn't loud; he merely projects further. But like his stride, when he speaks ears listen.

At hearing their leader's name, the crowd of Stormcloaks shout their approval and stamp their feet. The patrolling Legion soldiers observe this in awkward silence, waiting for orders — but none come, as Tullius watches the scene impassively. His hands remain clenched at his sides.

"Some call you a hero," says Tullius, after the last of the noise dies down, "here in Helgen, and perhaps in the rest of Skyrim. But does a hero use a power like the Voice to murder his king?"

"Of course he's making a bloody speech," groans Arrivarim under his breath. But no one pays him any mind; everyone in the crowd but Vladek, Ralof included, are jeering and mocking Tullius, shouting their disapproval.

"It was fair combat!" yells a particularly stubborn voice above the others. "It's the Nord way!"

"Let the man speak against his accusers!" yells another one, and stupidly, in Vladek's mind.

Ulfric himself, gagged as he is, does nothing but stand tall, his eyes shining with bare contempt.

"Shut up!" shouts a Legion soldier. He's quickly silenced by Tullius's quelling eye.

It takes much longer than the first for all the voices to hush. Throughout this, Vladek studies Tullius.

He's not a large man, but neither is he small. Imperials, mixed as they are in blood, have a number of shared traits with Nords: they're mostly hairy in a kempt way, broad of shoulder, and have frames suited for melee combat. Tullius is shorter than Ulfric, and shorter than his Nord subordinates, but he compensates this with his strong posture and aura of competence. He's older than Vladek, his hair short and gray, his face a mass of frown lines and gloomy creases. His armor is immaculate, polished, the breastplate a shine of color, but it's got the look of a weapon carefully maintained, as if the owner expects to unsheathe it at a moment's notice.

"You've plunged us into chaos," says Tullius harshly, turning back to Ulfric and ignoring the crowd. He speaks to Ulfric as though there's no one else around. "You selfishly started a war, threatened the peace, and killed Skyrim's rightful leader. I'd ask what you have to say for yourself, but I think we all know the choice of words you prefer."

At this, Ulfric narrows his eyes. He tries to speak, growling, but the words are swallowed by the gag. Vladek can barely hear them from the curses flung around his ears.

Tullius shakes his head, a quick, disgusted toss. "It doesn't matter now. The Empire's going to put you down and restore the natural order. You and your rebellion are finished." And with that said, he steps back and nods his head towards the priestess.

Her orange cloak billows as she walks to the fore. Unlike Tullius, she has no sway over anyone. The Stormcloaks either ignore her — after all, she can't speak for the god they're praying to — or deliberately talk over her words to Arkay, replacing them with loud proclamations of the Mighty Talos and Sovngarde. The Legion soldiers, mostly Nords, stiffen at this, but make no move to touch their swords. Perhaps they respect tradition too much to intervene.

"Don't these idiots know what they're doing?" hisses Arrivarim, and this time Vladek looks at him, brow furrowed. Arrivarim seems panicked, his eyes darting towards the Thalmor sitting astride their steeds. He's sweating and there's a small tremble to his hands.

"You all right there?" asks Vladek softly. Then he reminds himself they're on line waiting for their heads to be lopped off, and he shakes his head. "I mean," he tries again, "is there a...bigger problem?"

"Yes!" Arrivarim snaps his head down to whisper shrilly, "They're riling them up with their Talos talk!"

"Talos talk?"

"Their praying, their praying!"

"Is that a problem?" Vladek says sharply. "For dying men to pray to their god?"

"No, you buffoon!" Arrivarim snaps back. "It's them —" he nods his head to the Thalmor "— _they've_ got a problem!"

"What does it matter?"

"What does it matter?" repeats Arrivarim indignantly. " _What does it matter?_ If they're riled up and decide to kill us now, we'll never —" His whole body seizes up and he snaps his mouth shut. He turns away from Vladek's probing eyes.

"What did you say?" asks Vladek. He sounds far calmer than his racing pulse suggests.

"I never meant —"

"We'll never _what?_ " says Vladek. He steps closer; Arrivarim takes one back. In the mess of Stormcloaks, no one notices this.

"It's nothing —"

" _What are you hiding?_ " It's the coldest Vladek's ever sounded in his life. The effect is palpable: Arrivarim shrinks into himself, his breath caught in his throat. He refuses to meet Vladek's eyes.

" _Tell me_ —"

Then it happens: From the distance, there comes a thunderous gale of wind from deep in the mountains. Startled, Vladek whirls around and stares into the distance from behind the stone towers. He watches as the roiling fog drifts along the jutting mountains, coiling, drifting — and there, submerged in the missing horizon, a black bird plummeting through the air — and instantly it's gone. Only an imprint remains in the haze.

"What was that?" asks Hadvar loudly. He stands near the tower, a cautious hand on the pommel of his sword. His voice reflects the wary expressions of all present. Even the townsfolk, protected as they are on their porches, are less than confident; the men urge the frail and weak inside. Heads swerve like Vladek's to the skies, seeking out sudden stormclouds.

"It's nothing," calls Tullius, yet the hand on his sword betrays him. "Carry on!"

The priestess, who had been attempting a prayer, shoots Tullius a worried glance. When he orders her to continue, she reluctantly starts up again: "And as we commit these spirits to Aetherius —"

"What did you do?" asks Vladek, rounding on Arrivarim.

Arrivarim's eyes are wide; his face looks suddenly boyish, juvenile in fear, and Vladek wonders at that moment how old he is. He doesn't seem a day over twenty-five, though one can never tell with elves. "I-I don't know, the plan was not —"

"What plan?" Vladek hisses furiously, face forced inches away. From his peripheral vision he sees a Legion soldier walking towards them, but he cannot find it within himself to care. If he is going to die, it will be with answers.

"I _can't_ —"

There's another rap of thunder, and yet overhead there is only clear sky. Vladek strains his neck as he searches, his fingers digging into the burlap, his eyes narrowed. The fog swirls through the crevices between mountain peaks, and the Snow-Throat itself is obscured in a blanket of miasma. The back of his neck tingles, hair lifting, as he feels a current of magicka — one never forgets the feeling — rush over his body. A susurrus passes through the crowd, over the townsfolk, even the Legion soldiers, stopping everyone in their tracks, and Vladek knows they've felt it as well.

Arrivarim breathes. "What was —"

This time the thunder is booming, ear-shattering. A scream rings out; the ground quakes as the townsfolk flee into their homes. Something grasps Vladek's arm, and when he looks away from the descending fog — it's a deluge, a wave that sweeps over the whole of Helgen; when had fog become so swift, as though it were a living creature? — he finds Arrivarim holding on with both tied hands, his face a cavalcade of grim emotions, fear dominating his eyes. His long bangs are matted with sweat.

"Something's wrong!" he says frantically. "We've got to get out of here!"

"Aye!" Ralof is suddenly at his side, a grin stretching his mouth. "Talos answered our prayers!"

Vladek ignores him, turning to Arrivarim. "Not without my daughter!"

"Fine, fine! But we need to leave —"

The ground trembles, a soft motion like a ship at sea, until it violently sways faster and faster, and faster still until Vladek falls to his knees, cursing aloud, cries silent in the heavy winds that slash his ears. It's a cacophony of roars and shrieks and screams of confused terror, and then an explosion — when he blinks away the dust, Vladek watches as Tullius on his hands and knees pushes himself to stand, and there's Ulfric being pulled to his feet by several Stormcloaks — the Thalmor steeds are bucking wildly, thrashing in pure fright — and he hears over the great roar a grinding of stone, a rumbling, and the sky splits open with discordant wails, the very air abuzz with static — and he looks up, and he sees the black-clad executioner as he's pummeled by stonework, neck cracked at a horrible angle, bone jutting out the side, falling to the ground —

" _Dragon!_ "

And when he looks up again, he's far from Helgen, for no one can look upon such horror without losing himself: For can a mortal stare into the gaping maw of an abomination, into yellowed fangs the size of stalactites, dripping saliva, its tongue shivering in anticipation, and say he is unaffected by the sight? Can a mere man feel the malevolence leashed tightly to adumbral scales, the sheer malice in its stance, and not tremble as he realizes what lies in unspoken promise? Can a Nord witness white claws the length of a mammoth's tusks, eyes ablaze with literal fire, wings that encompass the sky, a strength to shake stone towers, and not fear the retribution of an undead god?

 _Dear Talos,_ his mind whispers. _It's a dragon._

And the creature rears back and roars at the sky — rends reality with its Shout, greater than any force of nature — and the sky splits in two, then three, then four parts, and a massive whorl carves the atmosphere, red, dark, an angry gate into what surely must be Oblivion; and the fog changes to a thick, cloying haze of smog, surrounding its prey — and from on high, a shining rain of meteors crash upon the earth, their tremors silent for the ringing in his ears; and the ground seizes and shakes, riddled with coughs; and Vladek remembers to breathe, remembers his limbs, and he scrambles upwards —

A blast of hot air shoves against his back, flinging him to his side. Distantly he hears the calls of men, Tullius shouting orders: _Get them to safety!_ — and the creature rears back again on its haunches and Shouts, and fire comes as it's called, rallied into a heady stream, setting alight the thatched roofs — another meteor hits just to Vladek's left, and he rolls away, gasping heavily — where did all the people go? He is alone, an easy mark. He jumps to his feet and spots, to his horror, the priestess of Arkay as she screeches in pain, her robes set aflame, the dusty orange scorched to flaking black, her form engulfed in fire, howling like an animal, until by some stroke of pitiful mercy the creature snatches her up in its teeth and swallows her whole.

BO, JOORRE, WAH DII ZAHR!

The words, indistinguishable from the wailing but for a powerful urge to listen, sound mocking, scornful. They ring in Vladek's mind and echo dully against the inside of his skull. It's the Old Tongue, older than the ancients, spoken by its progenitor with an ease that stokes sheer exhiliration in his belly. They are words that contain unholy power, and Vladek realizes with mounting panic that the dragon sounds ravenous, hungry.

He is a witness to something great and terrible.

" _Get up, kinsman!_ "

Something grabs him, and Vladek pulls away, in his fear stupidly assuming the dragon caught him in its talons. But no, it's Ralof, grin replaced with a determined grimace, his face painted in dust and blood. His uniform is cut up in strokes of burns and gashes. His filthy hand is outstretched, free from its binds, reaching for Vladek's.

"Hurry!" Ralof doesn't wait any longer; he snatches Vladek by the wrist and drags him closer. "Get it together, man!"

"I —" Vladek can't speak. His eyes are riveted to the monster circling overhead in quick, stomach-churning passes — it's as though the dragon is searching for prey, like a hawk — and he has no idea whether to scream or retch. He stumbles forward, blinking away the dust and smoke from his watering eyes. Ralof leads them away, hunching his back as they flee —

And suddenly Vladek stops in his tracks, pulling Ralof with him. They're nearly thrown to the floor as the dragon flies overhead, the wind driving them to their knees.

" _What's wrong with you!_ " Ralof screams into his face.

"Jani! My daughter!" Vladek cries back. His head buzzes and pulsates to an irregular rhythm. "I can't leave her! _Jani!_ " He shoves at the ground and stands on his shaking legs. "Jani!" he cries madly, jerking his head around.

The world is red. The air shimmers from the heat. What once were proud buildings are upended, collapsing ruins, thatch roofs caved in, flickering shadows dancing in the light of the flames, doors busted out their frames from desperation. Charred husks still yet moving curl into themselves, moaning, weeping. The earth is littered with craters and trenches. Above them the dragon roars unseen, voice carried along the embrace of the fog.

ZU'U FENT DU PAH!

" _Jani!_ " Vladek bellows. " _Ja_ —"

Sharp pain explodes at the back of his head, jarring the old bruise. He falls to his knees again, hands splayed and face screwed up in pain.

" _Fetching snowback!_ " Hands clamp down on Vladek's shoulders and pull him upright, dragging him away. Stunned, Vladek lets himself be towed along. It's not a minute too soon — without warning the dragon drops its hind claws onto a nearby stone wall, its eyes roving the scene. Three suicidal Legionnaires run past Vladek towards the beast, magic crackling and bows drawn with purpose.

"Jani!" he screams hoarsely, trying to evade Ralof's hold; but Ralof is half his age and not half as mad — he grabs Vladek just as he dives forward to join the soldiers. "My daughter, my daughter!"

" _Shut up!_ " Ralof yells. When Vladek looks back at him, he sees the man's face pulled taut and determined. "You're useless, man!"

Vladek can only watch in frozen horror — Ralof takes advantage and yanks him along — as the soldiers engage the dragon. Two archers and a mage, underdressed in light leather armors, keep a cautious distance as they approach. The mage casts a lightning spell aimed at the dragon's face; the archers' arrows focus on its wings. But it is meaningless. With three words Shouted — it's an indistinguishable bellow — the three drop to their hands and knees in supplication, trembling, clutching their heads desperately. The mage gets up and runs away, pure terror etched in his face. The dragon Shouts again — _Yol_ — and a stream of fire jets out the dragon's maw. The mage falls and rolls on the ground fitfully before he soon becomes consumed by the flames.

"Run!" This time when Ralof yells, Vladek complies. He is nothing but a skittering beast. Amidst the smoke and fog Ralof's blond hair is a beacon he scrambles after. There's no room for thought, only mindless action — and yet , and yet, his heart jumps, his soul aches. Warriors do not flee. He runs with madness snapping at his heels.

A wave of shudders encompasses the earth. Suddenly Vladek is on his back, spine burning and the world upside down. He coughs and finds that the sky's smog blanket has changed to stormy purple, lightning skittering behind the lining. From where he lies, he hears Ralof screaming curses and entreaties, and then once again the man appears overhead, though his temple is gushing with blood. Ralof grips the ropes binding Vladek's arms and heaves him up.

"Run to the tower!" He shoves Vladek in front of him. Through the fog Vladek spots several blue-clad figures shooting off into the distance. Without thinking he rushes after them, hopping over loose stones and embers, ducking low when the tell-tale gust passes over, swearing and praying and trying very hard not to _think_.

Above him, a circular stone tower protrudes from the fog. Stormcloak faces peer out from a gap in the wall, where a heavy wooden door lies in pieces next to the entrance. A crash of thunder breaks out across the sky, and Ralof unceremoniously thrusts Vladek within.

The interior of the tower is only slightly calmer than outside, yet compared to the clamor out the door in here it is as tranquil as a temple. Stormcloak soldiers hustle about. A young woman tends to a man whose head is a bloodied mess. Up the cracked staircase a pair of men gaze out the tower's arrow loops, grimacing at the destruction just a few stones away. When the ground rumbles, loose ceiling falls to the hay-strewn floor. When he sees Ulfric Stormcloak concealed in the alcove barely a foot away, Vladek nearly screams in fright, his nerves much too fragile to handle another scare.

Ulfric looks as though he went through another war. His posture, while still commanding, is less stout and far more fatigued. The bear furs around his shoulders are filthy with soot, and the ridge of his eye is swollen, as though it had been bashed in. The rest of him is not much better.

"You two," he says. Vladek has not heard his true voice before now. It's low and strong, the cadence smooth. There's a hint of an accent, but for the life of him Vladek cannot tell where it is from. "You're alive. Good." He nods his head to Ralof. "Tell me what you've seen."

All business, Vladek thinks dryly. He looks away, for he cannot bear to look at him. A part of him blames the man for what has happened. It is irrational, but he thinks the dragon is here for Ulfric. It's too convenient a timing.

"Still can't believe it," says Ralof reverently. He puts a hand to his head wound. "Beast's flying everywhere, picking off troops. It _Shouts_ , my Jarl." He shakes his head, murmuring, "The stuff of legends."

"Legends," says Ulfric sharply, "don't burn down villages." For a moment he observes the chaos outside the tower with a detached air. Then he switches to Vladek and sweeps a practiced eye down his body.

Vladek glowers back. With the immediate threat of danger gone a ball of anger he'd buried rises, helplessness converted to resentment. "Yeah?" he asks hoarsely.

Ulfric regards him with a cold expression. "Are you able?"

"What, to fight?" snaps Vladek. He chokes back bitter laughter. "You wish to fight a dragon?"

"No." Ulfric shakes his head and looks out the entrance. "No, I'm not stupid. No one here can do that. What we need," he says, eyeing Vladek's bound hands, "is an escape."

"To run." Vladek's voice is a mix of disgust and defeat.

"Yes. We can't hope to defeat this creature. There's no time to stand on ceremony. I must think of my men first."

"No."

Ulfric pauses, a minute fidget to his stance. He looks into Vladek's eyes and asks, "No?"

Vladek glares. "I can't leave without my daughter."

"Your daughter." He says it carefully. "The girl under the cart."

"Jani," Vladek bites out. "Her name's Jani, and I'm not leaving her behind."

The scrutiny Ulfric pays his body is unnerving. His eyes hold a cutting gleam. "Did you not leave her once?"

Vladek sucks in a harsh breath.

"You left her when the Legion came. And you've left her again out there." Ulfric's eyes are calculating. "Twice now you've left her, and yet you'll risk the lives of my men for a child you cannot care for?" He stares Vladek down, and he seems to grow taller. "Are you so cruel?"

"You are not my Jarl," hisses Vladek. Yet he feels his blood rush and the room warps at the truth of it. "I'm not leaving her."

"You would sacrifice so many lives?" presses Ulfric. "Look at my men." He points them out with a wave of his hand. "They're bleeding, injured, dying. You can be of use and save them, save us. And you say you won't?"

Vladek glances at the Stormcloaks, who studiously avoid his eye; even Ralof by the sentries bows his head. He catches the limping, the broken bones, the blood, the long stretches of burns. The soldier on the floor is still gushing blood from his head, eyes unfocused, mouth whispering. He looks to Ulfric and says in a bold voice, "I can't."

Ulfric closes his eyes and shakes his head, as if in disappointment. "A coward."

Vladek bristles. "Wanting my daughter safe is a coward's way, is it?"

"Times of trouble shape the man," says Ulfric dismissively. He doesn't look at Vladek. Instead he watches his Stormcloaks.

"I've fought in a war!" snaps Vladek. He takes a step towards Ulfric in challenge. Ulfric does not back down. "I know what I am! And that's a father to his child, you miserable —"

Another crash shakes the tower. A roar vibrates across the stone. The two soldiers on the staircase topple over, sliding down the stairs. A scream rings out as a chunk of rock falls to the ground level — the Stormcloaks scatter from the impact. Vladek and Ulfric press themselves against the wall. Once the dust clears, a tentative murmuring passes over the soldiers.

"Do you see now?" says Ulfric in a low voice.

Vladek is silent.

"We need to leave. I've regret for your daughter, but at this point she —"

"Don't say it," snaps Vladek, tensing at the unspoken words. "Don't you dare say it."

"We need to leave," says Ulfric instead. His face takes on a pitying cast.

"You can leave." Vlaek sets his jaw. "I'm staying."

"Man, are you mad?" Ralof cries, turning from the entrance to look properly at him.

"She's all I got," Vladek says quietly, almost too quietly. "What would I be if I left her?"

Ulfric stares at him. Then he says to a nameless sentry, "Undo his binds."

The Stormcloak man pats Ralof on the shoulder and pushes away from the wall. He pulls out from his belt a sharp piece of stone. Vladek shows him his tied hands. It takes a good minute of cutting before the makeshift knife slices through the rope. When it does, Vladek murmurs his thanks and rubs the blood back into his wrists. Purple bruises encircle them.

It's when Vladek is wondering on his freedom that he hears it: Above the thunderous roars, the snapping thatchery, a high-pitch voice cries, " _Help_ , you idiots!"

His heart races from both excitement and guilt. The elf, he thinks. He'd entirely forgotten about Arrivarim in the chaos. He pushes his way through the group of stunned sentries and looks out the entrance. What he sees takes his breath away.

In the short time Valdek was in the tower, the rest of Helgen has fallen into a blaze of ruin. The thick walls have crumbled to piles. The once-flat earth is now grooved with pits. The tower around which was to be his execution grounds is but the size of a cairn, its stonework blasted into shards. For a brief moment he is mesmerized by the sight of a burning Imperial flag, where it hangs limply on a melted hanging, its draconic sigil eaten by dying embers. Amidst this a hunched figure sprints directly towards him and the entrance; around its middle is an ashy, formless shape, which the figure curls over protectively. Mid-dash, a singed blonde braid falls from the middle of the figure, and Vladek's heart skips a beat.

"Who's —"

Vladek thrusts himself passed the sentries, ignoring Ralof's surprise, and slips out the door. The sky releases a volley of meteors just as he touches foot outside. With single-minded rage clouding his mind — there is no fear now, only thoughts of _get to them, hurry, hurry_ — he shoots out and meets the figure halfway in the clearing, yelling, "Come here!"

Arrivarim, his form enveloped with shudders, spots him and darts through a hail of debris. When they are close enough that Vladek can see his haunted eyes, he grabs Arrivarim by the arm and pulls him close. Vladek bends until his nose touches the crown of a sooty, near-dark head, his mind assessing. Jani is wrapped tightly around Arrivarim's torso, like a skittish fox clutching a branch, trembling, crying into his chest, unaware of the world. He glances over Arrivarim hastily; he seems exhausted, burnt, scared, but as healthy as can be under the circumstances. But Vladek cannot afford this at the moment — with a sharp glance at Arrivarim, he wrenches them forward and turns back to the tower.

" _Watch out!_ " a voice screams.

A strong gust buffets Vladek, and he has to let go of Arrivarim in order to keep his balance. He shuts his eyes against the gale — yet this is a mistake; as he hears the screams of the Stormcloaks and Arrivarim, he knows what has landed when the earth shakes and a thunderous roar erupts in front of him. Vladek's eyes snap open and he finds, to his soul-wrenched pleasure, the dragon blocking their escape.

It is as large as its first appearance suggested, perhaps moreso. The length of its neck is the height of two men, its wings encompassing the breadth of the sky. Its tongue dances with promise in-between glinting fangs. Vladek steps back in front of Arrivarim and Jani, his mind blank from fear. He cannot see the tower for the large sloped head and curved horns. A brief glance confirms his worst fears: the earth beneath the dragon is engraved with deep notches. Its scales are sharp enough to break rock.

His whole body shudders. From around his shoulder he hears Arrivarim begin to pant.

The dragon rears back onto its legs, its wings outspread. What little of the horizon Vladek can see is blotted out by darkness. It lifts and arches its neck until it stretches into a serpentine curve, and its fiery eyes look down at the mortals beneath it. Vladek does not think it is possible for it to become more frightening, but when the dragon lets out a roar of laughter, he finds himself shuddering all over again. It's a booming, disquieting laugh, a menacing laugh, full of dark intentions. The world falls silent at the sound.

TIL HI KRIIST, VAX DO DII EYLOK, says the dragon. Its tone is pleasant, if not disdainful, as if it were a lord before his serfs — and knowing the old tales, Vladek sucks in a sharp breath. Gooseflesh rises along his neck. It's eerie, the way its mouth moves in tandem with its voice; the glint of its razored maw is dazzling in this haze of red. FUL MAL, FUL SAHLO.

FAAZROT WAH DII BORMAH.

VODUN.

DOVAHKIIN.

The last word comes out a guttural growl, and all pretense of civility falls away. Its face descends towards Vladek — he closes his eyes, prays, opens them again — and realizes, his heart jumping, that the dragon is headed for Arrivarim's middle, for Jani.

And he is powerless to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. I hate Helgen and I wanted to steamroll through it, but everything important happens there and I couldn't very well skip it. Hopefully I'll be much more attentive in writing this story and getting the fun parts (finally). [Here's pictures of the characters,](http://writingbzzz.tumblr.com/post/149898094735/characters-from-this-fan-fiction-i-wrote-for) [and here's a bunch of Elder Scrolls writing prompts.](http://writingbzzz.tumblr.com/post/148846943625/elder-scrolls-prompts)
> 
> Translations:
> 
> BO, JOORRE, WAH DII ZAHR.......FLY, MORTALS, INTO MY MOUTH  
> ZU'U FENT DU PAH.......I SHALL DEVOUR ALL  
> TIL HI KRIIST, VAX DO DII EYLOK.......THERE YOU STAND, TRAITOR OF MY KIND  
> FUL MAL, FUL SAHLO.......SO LITTLE, SO WEAK  
> FAAZROT WAH DII BORMAH.......INSULT TO MY FATHER  
> VODUN.......DISGRACE

**Author's Note:**

> [writing blog](http://writingbzzz.tumblr.com/)


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